


to the beat of my heart

by kittebasu (chanyeol)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Ass Play, Biting, Blow Jobs, Drunk Kissing, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fisting, Frottage, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Marking, Masturbation, Mild Painplay, Phone Sex, Secret Relationship, Semi-Public Sex, Temperature Play, idol culture, japanese idol au, unprotected oral sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-20
Updated: 2016-07-31
Packaged: 2018-07-25 13:12:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 68,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7534033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chanyeol/pseuds/kittebasu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Former boyband member and acting idol Tsukishima Kei’s continued entanglement with Nekoma's lead singer Kuroo Tetsurou is just a series of missed steps in choreography he can’t quite master. (It doesn't help at all that Kuroo Tetsurou makes a habit of constantly changing the music.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SterlingAg](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SterlingAg/gifts).



> my dear recip,
> 
> i hope you like this???? 
> 
> i really had no idea what to write you, haha,  
> except that you seemed to want something explicit-rated?  
> i can 100% guarantee you this is explicit! 
> 
> and i hope you enjoy this AU, as i had a bit of fun making it work, even if one could  
> possibly  
> describe it as outlandish
> 
> blame mod-san

*

The ring of his mobile is obnoxious and grating and loud, waking Kei up from his nap in the most horrible way possible. He grapples for it, rolling onto his stomach as he reaches, cursing under his breath as his fingertips brush the damn thing thrice before he manages to drag it onto the bed. "Someone better be dead," he says, keeping his eyes closed as he answers, after pressing his thumb to the home button to unlock and answer the call. His words are muffled by his pillow, but he figures his croaking voice will get the point across.

"Yeah," says Kageyama, sounding just as angry to be alive this morning, although Kei firmly believes Kageyama always sounds like this, "your reputation, asshole. Yamaguchi’s been trying to reach you all afternoon to ask what happened."

"It can’t have been _all afternoon_ ," replies Kei, fumbling for the speaker button and hoping he’s hit it. "You interrupted my nap. It’s early. There’s plenty of afternoon left, your majesty." Even exhausted and miserable, Kei always has the energy to needle his former bandmate, even when he won’t get the immediate gratification of Kageyama’s ugliest twisted scowl. "So what do you want, King?"

"First of all, it’s ten at night," Kageyama replies, through audibly gritted teeth. "And secondly, you’re all over the news."

"All over the news for what?" With resignation, Kei rolls over onto his back and reaches again for his glasses, shivering as his sheet slips lower and reveals his bare chest to his bedroom’s chill. "What could I have even done?"

"Seems you were usual charming self this morning!" Kei winces as Hinata’s foghorn of a voice replaces Kageyama’s gruff mutter. "A bunch of fans caught your girlfriend— or, well, maybe your _ex-girlfriend_ , I guess, crying outside of a restaurant after brunch only twenty minutes after you both entered together!"

"Oh." Kei blinks blearily at the ceiling. There are fingerprints on the lenses of his glasses, and he’s got a killer headache. What a shitty evening, perfect to cap off Kei’s generally shitty week.

"The smear campaign right now is ridiculous," Kageyama says, apparently having regained possession of his own phone. "I mean, it’s not actually a smear campaign, since it’s mostly people talking about what a huge fucking jerk you are so it’s mostly just honest assessment—"

"He who lives in a glass house shouldn’t cast stones," Kei interrupts, and Hinata giggles in a way completely inappropriate for a twenty-six year old man. "Anyway, it shouldn’t be anyone’s business. We broke up. What’s the big deal?"

"You left her crying outside a restaurant in the middle of the day. In _December_. _Alone_ ," Kageyama says slowly. "And she’s Japan’s 'girl-next-door'. You’re basically the dick of the century, even if your more over-the-top fans are already making excuses for your jackassery on Twitter."

Kei sighs and rubs the side of his face, still smooth even though he hasn’t shaved in days. "Your house is just as glass as it was a minute ago, King."

"At least I keep my private life _private_." Kageyama’s sour-milk face is easy to imagine. Kei rolls his eyes. "Name one time _you’ve_ gotten a call from a morning show asking for a statement on my shitty character, Tsukishima?"

"I don’t know why they’re asking for your opinion." Kei swallows. "Everyone knows we don’t get along." He sneers at nothing. "We’re _famous_ for it."

"Yeah, yeah," Hinata says, interjecting, and confirming Kei’s suspicions that he’s on speaker-phone, "but we were all bandmates for like _ten years_ or something, so it’s not like no one’s gonna ask us!"

"How are you so energetic all the time. It’s disgusting." 

"Not my fault you’re cranky!" He can _hear_ Hinata sticking out his tongue. 

"You’re awful brave over the phone, shortie." Kei sighs heavily, and finally looks at his phone. He’s got fifteen missed calls blinking at him from the green phone icon, and he’s willing to bet they’re split equally between Ukai, Tadashi, and Takeda. "How bad is this, actually?"

"Basically everyone you’ve ever fucked with is dog-piling." Kageyama sounds… well, if Kei didn’t know any better, he’d say Kageyama sounds more pissed off than usual, and on his _behalf_ , or something. That would be stupid, considering Kei means it when he tells people that he and Kageyama barely get along. "Pre-orders of your new single are being cancelled. You’ll have to talk to Takeda about everything else, because I don’t know. I only know about this because everyone’s been asking me for a statement."

"What did you say?" Kei sits up, scratching at his bare stomach. It’s so cold, in his apartment. Almost as cold as it had been this morning, standing in front of Nametsu as she looked up at him from her seat at the table with those wide, disbelieving eyes. He twists his free hand in his sheets. "Tsk, probably just called me a dick again and got in trouble with Ukai for your language."

"I said that I didn’t know anything, and we should wait for your side of the story." Kageyama pauses, and then, grudgingly, offers up more information. "We don’t know Nametsu’s, either, by the way. She hasn’t said anything, and neither has her agency. There’s just those awful fan-taken videos from outside the restaurant where she’s sitting on the edge of the road sobbing." 

_Great_ , Kei thinks, ignoring the guilty ache in his gut. "Okay."

"Say, Tsukishima," Hinata says, voice lowering slightly, with a wobbling edge of the nervousness he used to feel before their shows back when they first debuted as a group, "you didn’t… People are saying you cheated on her, or that she’s having your secret baby, or that you’ve been in love with Yachi-chan all this time, or something. But none of that stuff is true, right?"

Kei is silent, letting it stretch for a bit until Hinata starts to stutter out more qualifications and questions. "Of course it’s not true," he says, finally, deadpan, bringing Hinata’s backpedalling to a halt. "Yachi? Really? Nametsu and I just… broke up. Relationships end. I don’t understand why people are making a big deal about it."

"Because it’s _public_ ," Kageyama says, and damnit if he doesn’t sound like Sugawara these days, Kei thinks. Like an grumpy, wet-cat version of Sugawara. Kei hates it, that Kageyama’s grown up and Kei’s still, in so many ways, the same. "She’s a famous actress, you’re a former member of one of the best selling Japanese idol groups of all time, and you broke up with her in public."

"Not like she left me much choice," Kei says, and then, before he can be asked for clarification, he sighs. "I’m going to call Takeda now."

"Good," Kageyama says. "I can’t believe you answered my call instead of his or Yamaguchi’s. What did I do to deserve that."

"Both of our misfortunes," says Kei. "Bye, King."

"Stop calling me that," Kageyama replies, overly-aggressive as fucking _usual_ , and hangs up on him.

Kei heaves a sigh and tosses his phone aside, pushing himself up and out of bed. He feels hungover, though he hasn’t had anything to drink, and his limbs feel heavy, like he’s just done a show at the Tokyo Dome instead of having just had a leisurely brunch. Wandering into the living room, he folds himself down easily onto the sofa, and, after a moment’s hesitation, grabs the remote instead of the script for his new drama that’s sitting innocuously next to it.

It’s not on the main news, or anything. Kei isn’t that famous, even if Nametsu is. But the moment he switches to entertainment coverage, there it is. It’s clearly Nametsu despite the wobbling of the phone camera, sitting with her shoulders hunched and shaking, face pressed to her knees, alone. Kei grips the control tighter in his hand and forces himself to keep looking until the video shows her manager’s car pulling up to a stop at the curb, and ushering her into the passenger seat. 

The panel is talking about the video, but Kei can barely hear them. Instead, he’s thinking back to Nametsu last night, wrapping her small hand around his wrist, and he hates that he feels bad for something that’s not his fault. Shouldn’t be his fault, anyway. He never promised anything, and never expected her to want anything from him, either. 

His phone, back in his bedroom, starts ringing again. He looks longingly at the door to his private studio space.

"Shit," he says, and drags himself off of the sofa to go answer it, knowing that no matter who it is, it’ll be a difficult conversation. 

*

Kei and Nametsu Mai, female star of Iron Wall Talent Agency and Japan’s official Girl Next Door, had started dating over two years ago, three weeks after Karasuno’s last show. Kei remembers that whole month pretty vividly; all the prep for the farewell concerts, four AM rehearsals that ended with him and Tadashi drinking cold tea on the roof of the Ukai Agency building, sweat chilling on their arms in the fall night air. 

"What are you going to do after this, Tsukki?" Tadashi had asked him, stretched out next to him.

Ah, Kei had thought. They were finally going to have this talk. He had been quiet about his future, post-Karasuno. He’d known, mostly, what everyone else would be doing, after disbandment, but Kei’s also _always_ sort of known what they’d all fall into, because it’s always been clear where everyone else belonged. Kageyama, who could sing and dance and take up a whole stage by himself, was destined for continued superstardom; solo concerts and top ten singles and uncomfortable gossip scandals that’ll never have a shred of truth to them. Sugawara and Hinata were born variety show MCs, with how good they are with people, and Nishinoya and Tanaka have mentioned more than once going into producing. Sawamura’s going to university despite being well past the age for it, and Azumane’s already started mentoring idol-hopefuls in his limited downtime. Kei wouldn’t be surprised if Tadashi found his way onto Azumane’s path, really, though he’s always secretly thought Tadashi would be a pretty good manager, like Takeda. 

He’d glanced over at Tadashi, then, nervously licking his lips and looking at the stars, and sighed. "Take a nap," he’d said, and Tadashi had covered his mouth and laughed, eyes crinkling at the corners as he shot Kei a look. 

"I mean, in general. Feels like we’ve been doing this forever." Tadashi had chewed on his lower lip. "I’ve been thinking about going to university, or something, like Sawamura. Then maybe I’d like to become…" He’d trailed off, and Kei had sighed again. "Well, maybe a manager? I’ll be an idol for a while longer, but…"

Kei had smirked, feeling a bit smug. "Yeah," he’d said. "That’d be pretty good. You’re already a little bossy."

"Am not," Tadashi had disagreed. "I just worry." He’d nudged Kei with his foot. "What about you?" 

"Acting, I think," Kei had said, eventually, rubbing his hands up and down his thighs, the outside chill finally overpowering the overheating of dance practice. 

Tadashi looked surprised, but then, slowly, he’d nodded. "I can… see that. You been offered anything?"

He had. Several dramas, and a film. He doesn’t know what Ukai will choose for him, really, but he hadn’t hated any of the roles. They were all for stoic male leads, and bad boys. He’d do all right with roles like that, for a while. "It’s better than a lot of the idol stuff."

"I don’t know, Tsukki," Tadashi had replied, smiling up at him, sheen of perspiration all but gone from his familiar freckled face. "I think variety show hosts have been warming up to your dead body impersonations!"

"Shut up," had been Kei’s dry reply, but he hadn’t been able to sound serious about it, because he’d known he wasn’t the most _personable_ member of Karasuno. "Actors don’t have to do as much of the variety, if they’re any good."

"Yeah," Tadashi had agreed, and then he’d given Kei a considering once-over. "You going to be any good?" 

Kei had scoffed, and that had been that until Ukai had cornered him later in the week during their last dress rehearsal. "So here’s the deal," Ukai had said, looking right into Kei’s eyes. "You’ve got the personality of a feral housecat." Kei’d blinked at him, put out, and Ukai coughed. "Which, I mean, fine, mostly worked for you, since you were the ~serious dancer~ and all that. But."

"But?" Kei had leaned against the wall himself, ignoring the truly horrifying crunch of rhinestones and feathers . 

"But the Old Man," and Kei envisions Ukai’s grandfather’s sterner countenance, "is worried about your likability going forward. You know the Japanese entertainment industry is about more than talent." 

Kei swallowed. "Is this your way of telling me I have to smile while we perform tomorrow?" He raised one eyebrow, missing his glasses. He’d never been allowed to wear them on stage, but from behind them, it’d have been easier to hide anything his eyes might give away. "Because you know it’s our last show. It won’t make a difference."

Ukai snorted. "Smiling? We’re not asking for a miracle," he’d said. "I’m not saying this to discourage you, kid, sorry. You know me after all these years. I’m like your coach. This is just a heads up that we’re publishing news of your new endorsement deal tonight so if anyone asks about it at the presscon tomorrow just nod and say you’re honored to represent a brand you love, all right?"

"My new… endorsement deal." Kei wished he could run his fingers through his hair, only it’s gelled solid and it doesn’t feel nice anymore anyway, after so many times being bleached such a pale blond the sixteen year old him would barely recognize himself in the mirror. "What endorsement deal is that, exactly?"

Ukai’s mouth pulled into a crooked grin. "It’s for Ato. The clothing brand. They want you to model sweatshirts, casual apparel, maybe a few edgy cut suits. Almost nothing you wouldn’t actually wear." He looked Kei up and down. "Not like your costume today, at least."

"Oh," Kei replies. "So you’re giving me an endorsement deal to give me another way to showcase some sort of acceptable idol personality." He gives Ukai a dubious look, taking in the still-amused tilt of his mouth. "Why are you making that face? Do I have to smile during _that_?"

"Well," Ukai says, "I don’t know. What I _do_ know is that you’ll be doing the commercials and photoshoots with Nametsu Mai."

"Oh?" Of course Kei knew who she was. Idol, actress, variety talent— Japan’s darling, really. "What lottery did I win?"

"She requested you," said Ukai.

Kei, not sure what to make of that, had sighed and accepted it. It wasn’t like they hadn’t all done their fair share of advertisements, really. Hinata’d been selling hair dye for years, thanks to the popularity of his bright red mane, and Sugawara had filmed a hundred more packaged cakes commercials last month, coming home to their dormitory looking a bit like he was five seconds from passing out from a sugar coma. Kei could handle a few stylish sweatshirts, especially if it would improve his reputation without him needing to get a personality transplant. "Is that all?"

"That’s all," Ukai had replied. "Take it seriously, Tsukishima. There are only so many times you can play Mr. Stoic before people will get tired of it. You need to give people a glimpse of something else."

"What if there is nothing else?" Kei scratched carefully at his neck, watching Ukai.

"I’ve known you more than half your life, _Tsukki_ ," he’d replied, using the old nickname Kei had long grown out of. "There’s always been more. You only turned into this when—" Ukai stopped, then, catching himself. People always stopped. Never, ever finished the thought aloud. "Anyway, let’s see more of the eager little boy who wanted very badly to be signed, shall we?"

Kei stared at Ukai for a long moment, before batting his eyelashes at him apathetically. "Good enough?"

Ukai laughed, grabbing his belly. "Yeah," he said, "that’ll do."

And then there was the concert, a full Tokyo Dome, and the members of Karasuno bowing on stage side by side one last time, and Kei felt empty and restless and maybe, though he’d never admit it in the face of an openly sobbing Hinata, sniffling Tanaka and Nishinoya, and the huddled together forms of Sugawara, Sawamura and Azumane, a little bit lost. 

"Seems strange," Tadashi said, leaning into him slightly. "That it’s over just like that."

"It’s about time," Kei muttered in reply, both of them knowing he didn’t really mean it.

So it was an unanchored, vaguely listless Tsukishima Kei that met Nametsu Mai on set to do their first photoshoot for Ato, and he wasn’t entirely sure what to make of her. 

"You’re as cute as you look in your photobook pictures," is the first thing she said to him, with a dimpled smile and a short bow. "Please take care of me, Tsukishima-san."

"Sure," he’d replied, bowing back, and she’d raised both eyebrows at him skeptically before laughing and bouncing off back to makeup. 

In some ways, she reminded him of Hinata, with the bright way she greeted everyone on set and the sheer amount of energy, but in other, more important ways, she was far more like Tadashi. She poked and prodded him into answers, but never to the point that it tried his patience, and over the course of the shoot, and subsequent commercials and promo conferences, he’d started to think of her kind of like Yachi. A friend, of sorts, even if Kei had never been the best at making friends.

Their ads were popular, with fans buzzing about how attractive they look standing next to each other, boys wanting to be Kei and girls wanting to be Nametsu. Kei’d gotten good comments online and on his social media for how natural he acted, walking down the street with Nametsu Mai, and how much they’d liked seeing his so-called softer side.

"That’s ridiculous," he’d told Yachi, when she’d showed him a clip of him and Nametsu in a magazine, speculating over whether they were dating for real. "Of course we’re not."

"You’re just so nice to her," Yachi’d said. "No one’s ever seen you be nice."

"I’m nice to you all the time, right?" He’d pushed his glasses up on his nose, and then pushed his food around on his plate, thinking about the article. His face in hearts. He’d never had any sort of dating rumors before, and it wasn’t like he wanted to start now.

"But no one knows that, because we hardly ever appear in the same place for promoting new albums." Yachi shook her hair out of her eyes. She was blond, too, this time, for their new music video, as was Tanaka Saeko. "We have… different audiences. Anyway, you smiled at her in that last advertisement. Hinata tried to tape it."

"I did not," Kei had replied, brows furrowed. "Such slander."

"You used to smile all the time when we were kids." She’d wrinkled her nose cutely. "It’s no big deal. The rumors will fade when the contract with Ato ends, anyway. You know the company’s playing it up."

"Naturally," Kei’d replied, and that, too, had been that.

At their last shoot, for Ato’s edgier summer line, she’d been standing next to him, resting her weight against his arm, her chin tilted up defiantly and her hair falling long and dark across her shoulders as the photographer corrected the slant of Kei’s shoulders and the turn of his feet. "We should date," she said casually, as they changed positions, and Kei, who hadn’t been expecting it, lost his balance turning too quickly to look at her. She laughed at him, and offered him a hand up. "I mean for show."

"What are you talking about?" Kei had smoothed the wrinkles out of his shirt and repositioned himself correctly, even as he’d raised an eyebrow at her while she continued to laugh at him.

"Be my public boyfriend, Tsukishima Kei." She’d elbowed him lightly. "It’ll be fun."

"No," he’d replied, and she’d simply kept laughing, and thrown an arm around his waist for the following shot. 

At lunch, she’d sat down across from him at the narrow table set up for staff, half a sandwich and about twenty cookies on her plate. "Hear me out," she’d said. "I need a boyfriend right now, to go with to movie premieres and, in general, stop the rampant speculation about who my boyfriend is. It’s getting to the point where people follow me way too much. And you, Tsukishima Kei, could use some of the goodwill that’s associated with me." She tilted her chin down. "It looks strange, too, that you’ve never dated anyone, or had any rumors at all. Even the cute little red-head has been linked with a few of the rookie idol girls! This would be a win-win scenario, don’t you think?"

Kei knew there’d been speculation about him on the fanboards. 'Tsukishima’s too cold to date' wasn’t so bad, but a lot of the other stuff was more insidious, and he could ignore it all he wants but in the longrun, he also knew his albums sold because of female fans, and that all the photos of him holding hands with Tadashi at a concert meant nothing in the face of any real suspicion of that nature.

"Except for the part where I have to spend more time with you," Kei had pointed out, trying to keep his face unreadable. On the inside, though, he’d already started calculating how to spin a possible new relationship to Takeda. After all, he didn’t hate Nametsu, and it wasn’t like he was going to be dating anyone for real. Not as long as he was famous, anyway. He’d save that for later, when he’d done everything he’d said he would do back when he was thirteen, standing defiantly in his parent’s kitchen with a provisional Ukai Agency contract in his hands, telling them he’d made up his mind. 

"That," Nametsu had said, "will be the biggest win of all."

The news that Tsukishima Kei and Nametsu Mai were dating dropped on a Tuesday. Kei had been at Tadashi’s apartment, eating greasy pizza they would definitely have regretted a month prior. They’re sitting in the kitchen, and Tadashi had the radio playing Oikawa Tooru’s evening music show. The new Nekoma song, catchy as hell, had been playing in the background, and Kei had been subconsciously tapping along to the beat with his free hand against his thigh, the pads of his fingertips barely pressing in to the fabric of his jeans. Then, the song had ended, and Oikawa had started to read through the gossip news.

"Here’s a fun one," Oikawa had said in his familiar low croon, and it had echoed through Tadashi’s kitchen. "Tsukishima-san from Karasuno is dating National Sweetheart Nametsu Mai! What a delightful surprise! Both agencies have confirmed that the two have entered a relationship! Beauty and the Grinch, _really_! So listeners, what do you think of that?" 

Tadashi, who had been about to take a bite, had blinked at him, slowly, disbelievingly. "Seriously?"

Kei had blinked back, unmoved. "Yeah," he’d said, and taken another bite of pizza.

Tadashi had narrowed his eyes at him slightly, and licked his lips, catching a bit of cheese. "I’d always thought you—" He seemed to change his mind, mid-sentence, and then he’d taken a huge bite of pizza that made it impossible for him to continue speaking.

"Thought I was what?" Kei carefully set the rest of his pizza slice down on the paper plates they always used because they both hated doing dishes. 

Tadashi stared at him as he methodically chewed, and then, clearing his throat, replied: "Not interested in dating. And you never told me you liked Nametsu."

"Well," Kei had replied. "I’m dating her, I guess."

"You guess?" Tadashi was still _watching_ him, and Kei remembered, distinctly, feeling exposed under his gaze.

"Didn’t you hear Oikawa? It’s official."

"I heard him, all right." Sighing, Tadashi had reached for his glass of cola. "Con… gratulations?"

Kei had smirked at him. "Thanks," he’d said, and wished that it hadn’t felt like guilt and bitterness were curling up in his belly right then, strange bedfellows with that night’s greasy, delicious pizza. 

_Just for show,_ Nametsu had said, and Kei curled his hands into fists on his lap, the tune of the Nekoma song playing earlier lost to his own second-guessing about this plan, because he knew, in the back of his mind, that there was no way this would be as easy as it seemed.

*

"Right before your new drama goes into production, too!" Takeda looks seconds from tearing his own hair out. "Ahh, this is no good! People are cancelling their purchases of your single!"

"That’s what Kageyama said," Kei replies easily, leaning back on the sofa in Ukai’s office, watching Takeda pace as Ukai smokes a cigarette. "There’s nothing we can really do about it, right? What’s done is done."

"You know," Ukai says, "when I agreed to let you date Nametsu Mai publicly, it was because it would be _good_ for your image, not a trainwreck." He runs a hand through his bleached hair, exhaling smoke that hovers around him like a halo.

"It was good for my image," Kei replies, refusing to cough at the smoke, even though he hates it. "I didn’t expect her to change the rules."

"There are no rules in love," Takeda says, and Ukai interrupts him before he can start spouting classical poetry. 

"We have to fix this." Ukai stubs his cigarette out on the big orange glass ashtray on his desk. "You’ll need to make a statement. Something along the lines of not knowing she was crying when you left, and all that, even if it’s a lie—"

"It’s not," Kei says. "I didn’t know she was crying." He swallows, and looks up at the ceiling, thinking about the way Mai had gripped his wrist too tightly and asked him if he would consider turning their fake relationship into a real one. "I am not completely heartless." 

"Huh," Ukai says, looking at Kei carefully. "You okay, kid?"

"When are you going to stop calling me kid? I’m twenty-six."

"We’ve known you too long," Takeda says, sitting down on the other sofa in Ukai’s office. "I’ve been Karasuno’s manager since before you even released your first album, and you were, what, fourteen?"

Kei licks his lips. "Still, I’m an adult," he says. "And do we really have to make a statement? It’s my personal life."

"You know better than that," answers Ukai. "You’re an idol, Tsukishima. There’s always going to be undue interest, especially when the girl whose heart you broke is Nametsu Mai’s." He shuffles around a few papers on his desk, looking for something. He finds a list, clearly written by Takeda, and skims it. "So, just so we know. Did you cheat on her? Do anything we need to get in front on with public relations?"

"No," Kei says. "It wasn’t…" He exhales. It wasn’t _real_ , he wants to say. At least, it wasn’t real for him, and could never have been real, no matter how fond he is of Nametsu, in his own way. "I wasn’t even planning to break up with her." He hesitates. "I wasn’t even sure I did until her publicists announced that I did a few hours ago." It had been a short announcement. _Nametsu Mai and Tsukishima Kei are no longer dating._ He still feels a bit blindsided, even if after the conversation with Kageyama he should have expected it.

"You’re a stellar and shining example of social skills," Ukai tells him, and then he waves his hand in dismissal. "Go back home. Sleep well. You have a busy schedule this week, right? It’ll be a gauntlet getting through reporters when you do that interview tomorrow." He exhales loudly. "Did you have to date the most popular woman in Japan, Tsukishima? Honestly."

Kei stands up, leaving Takeda and Ukai to figure out damage control and stepping out into the hallway. He knows the layout of the Ukai Agency building better than the back of his hand, after years of wandering around it, between meetings and practices and nights recording until dawn. Late nights playing hiding games begrugeingly at Hinata’s insistence, legs tucked under his chin as he waited underneath the mixing booth, or on the roof with Tadashi, talking about things he never could have said to anyone else. He loves this building, in his own way, even if he resents the fact that it represents almost the whole of his adolescence. 

He doesn’t need to look as he navigates his way down to garage, where his car and solitude are waiting for him. Instead he scrolls through his phone, checking one last time for important messages and ignoring around fifty texts from Sawamura that all read some version of _Sugawara is texting using my number_. Most people dodge him when he _is_ paying attention, and he has no reason to suspect today will be any different, when he knows for sure his scowl is as intimidating as usual. 

So it’s a surprise when he runs, hard, into someone else, his phone falling to the floor, screen cracking, and Kei only saved from hitting the ground next to it by the quick reflexes of whomever bumped into him. He follows the hand, large and tan, gripping his forearm all the way up to a pair of broad shoulders, and then, finally, to a pair of golden-dark eyes and curling, smirking mouth. "Careful," the man says, and his voice is higher than Kei had expected, but still smooth, dragging the end of his admonition out into a drawl. "Wouldn’t want to fall, would you?"

Kei steadies himself, and shakes his arm free of the man’s grip. "If I did, it would be your fault," he mutters, squatting down to pick up his phone. "Tsk, broken."

"My fault?" At the man’s laugh, Kei looks up again, and this time, instead of seeing just bits of the man’s face, he sees the entirety of it, stirring recognition. "You weren’t watching here you were going either." Kuroo Tetsurou, the lead singer of Nekoma, slips his hands into his pockets, and leans forward slightly, a taunt in the jut of his jaw despite the loose, friendly slop of his shoulders. "So I think we’ll have to share the blame, heartbreaker."

Kei scowls, fighting a flinch at the word heartbreaker. "What are you doing here?" Kuroo is dressed for the winter, in a dark black coat and brown leather boots. The bright red of his scarf draws attention up from his long limbs to his sharp cheekbones and smooth jawline. "This isn’t your agency." 

Instead of answering, something shifts in Kuroo’s expression, the smirk fading into something softer. He has a wide mouth, Kei thinks. A wide mouth and thin, soft lips, and at that, Kei returns his gaze to Kuroo’s eyes. "I didn’t think it would bother you," says Kuroo. "Me calling you heartbreaker. You’ve got a rep, you know, for being a little cold." He blinks, slowly, long lashes dark against his cheeks. "Today didn’t help much, _Tsukki_."

"You’ve got a rep for being obnoxious," replies Kei. "Now’s not helping much." He huffs, and pushes up on his glasses. "And it’s Tsukishima to you."

Kuroo laughs. "Fair enough," he says. "I was here because I’m apparently recording a soundtrack single with an Ukai artist for my new drama and I had to sign some paperwork." He rolls his head on his neck, and Kei can’t help but notices the rise and fall of Kuroo’s adam’s apple as he swallows. "Now _your_ turn. Why were you hiding in your phone to avoid looking up, hmm? Anything to do with today’s exciting news?"

"Hiding?" Kei stands, tucking his broken phone into the pocket of his coat. "No. Checking my messages. Most people here regularly tend to stay out of my way." 

"Now why would they do a silly thing like that?" Kuroo looks him up and down, and the clear _suggestion_ of it is enough to quicken Kei’s pulse. He looks away. 

"Maybe they understand I don’t have time for games." He drops his hands to the bottom of his coat, and starts the zipper, pulling it halfway up. "I’m on my way home."

Kuroo hums, stepping forward just enough that the ends of his red scarf brushes against Kei’s coat, and their toes barely touch. "You sure? You look like you could use a drink."

"What does that look like?" Kei looks up at Kuroo through his lashes, slightly put out that the other man is taller, and bothered by the red flush he can feel creeping up his neck. "Needing a drink?"

"Something like that grouchy look on your face." Kuroo grins at him, and Kei can sort of see, maybe, why this is a face on billboards even more often than Kageyama’s repulsively symmetrical mug. "So what do you say? May I buy you a drink, Tsukishima?"

"No," Kei replies, and he reaches out with one hand to push Kuroo away. "I don’t even know you, so I’m going home."

Kuroo raises his eyebrows, and holds both hands up in surrender. "You just looked like you might like the distraction." His hair falls across his forehead. "And I thought you might want to get to know your new co-star, since we’ll be working together for a while."

"What."

Kuroo’s chuckle makes Kei’s toes curl in his shoes. "I mean, we’re recording a soundtrack single together next week, and we’ll be filming together for _months_ , you know." His eyelids drop to half mast, and he’s somehow in Kei’s space again. Even though they aren’t touching, the heat of Kuroo feels like an arm across his shoulders.

"If I don’t get dropped from the production," says Kei, breath suddenly harder to come by. "Studios do like to avoid scandals."

"You definitely won’t get dropped," Kuroo replies. He fiddles with one of the oversized buttons on his wool coat with long, thin fingers, and he doesn’t break eye-contact with Kei. 

"Oh? Are you on the casting team, as well? So multi-talented, Kuroo-senpai. Starring and production." Kei means it to come out sharper, but it sounds… almost playful, which he definitely hadn’t intended, when all he wants to do is get in his car and go home. 

"Now, now, Tsukishima, I only meant that even with this, you’re still a high profile Ukai talent, and a former member of Karasuno. The target audience of our drama is teenagers, not the general public, so this hit won’t really hurt the bottom line there." Kuroo wiggles his eyebrows in a manner bordering on suggestive. "So. Let’s be friends. Still not up for that drink?"

"Not tonight," Kei says, sidestepping Kuroo, moving forward along the mostly empty hall. A few people are watching them interact, and Kei bets they’re waiting to see what he’ll do. Kei’s not known for having a short temper, or even for making the staff’s lives more difficult, but… He knows he can be rude, when he doesn’t make the effort, and he knows he _also_ doesn’t leave a first great impression. It’s expected, that passerbys might wonder how he’ll get on with someone like Kuroo, who seems intent on getting some kind of reaction from him. "Bye."

"Hmm, then you should give me your number." Kei looks over his shoulder to see Kuroo is still smiling, unfazed by Kei’s manners. "I’m sure you’ll look like you need a drink again later this week." The corners of his eyes crinkle as his lips twitch, and Kei’s stupid heart is beating so fast, like he’s sixteen again or something, and first noticing the way Sawamura’s lower lip dragged on the rim of water-bottles when he took long desperate drags after dance practice. "Let’s exchange?"

"Sorry," Kei manages, "phone’s broken." He offers Kuroo a speculative look, and then says. "But sure, I’ll tell you mine." He rattles off the numbers without warning, and then, ignoring the way Kuroo doesn’t bother to hide his amusement, spins on his heel and continues on his way to the garage. 

"I’ll call you," Kuroo calls after him, chuckling, and Kei licks his lips and doesn’t bother replying.

Tadashi is leaning up against his car, waiting for him. He’s wearing sweatpants and he looks exhausted, like he’d come right from one of the empty rehearsal rooms for this ambush. 

"You that desperate for a ride home?" Tension Kei hadn’t realized had dissipated during his run-in with Kuroo digs back into him, clawing its way up his spine as he grips his keys.

"Gonna ignore my calls forever?" Tadashi frowns up at him, face pink and hair damp, the picture of disapproval. "You talked to Kageyama and you hate Kageyama."

"Hate is such a strong word," Kei replies. "It implies effort, which I am not willing to expend on the King."

"Still," Tadashi says, "I called you a lot."

Kei wonders if he can get away with telling Tadashi his phone is broken, too. Instead, he gestures vaguely to the car and then climbs into the driver’s seat, waiting for Tadashi to get in as well before cranking the engine. The radio turns on automatically, playing the last few notes of Nekomata Agency’s new girl group’s track before transitioning to commercials, and Kei is tempted to turn it up. "Did you know I was doing my new drama with Kuroo Tetsurou?"

"Saw him around earlier today," Tadashi crosses his arms, lower lip poking out stubbornly. "Stop changing the subject, Tsukki."

"She wanted our relationship to be something more serious. I didn’t, and I wasn’t prepared for her to ask like that, so I said the wrong thing. Now it’s this."

"More serious?" Tadashi turns sideways in his seat, the safety belt digging into his neck. "Like, what, getting _married_?" Tadashi’s voice cracks on the word, like the idea of it is so impossible that voicing it hurts him viscerally, and normally that would make Kei laugh, but tonight it mostly just reminds him that he’s been kind of, sort of, living a lie for two years. 

Kei shifts gear and pulls out of the parking lot, out onto the road. Tadashi’s apartment isn’t far from his own, but both of them live over twenty-five minutes from the Agency building by car. There’s no real escape from this conversation, and it is, he tells himself, _Tadashi_ , who has been Kei’s friend for what feels like forever, even though Kei’s not exactly friend material. "Like actually dating," Kei says, as blandly as he can, sneaking a look at Tadashi out of the corner of his eye as he switches lanes. Tadashi looks criminally confused, his face all scrunched up in thought, and Kei runs his tongue over his teeth.

"Weren’t you already… _What_?"

"We were dating, but there were supposed to be no feelings involved." He taps his thumbs on the steering wheel. "You know, dating for convenience." Tadashi chokes, and Kei heaves a sigh. "Like for our careers, Yamaguchi, get your mind out of the gutter."

"Your relationship with Nametsu Mai was a _showmance_?" Kei doesn’t take his eyes off the road to see Tadashi’s expression this time, but he knows it’s probably some mix of exasperation and incredulity. "For two _years_?"

"Yeah." Kei presses his lips into a straight line. "It worked, didn’t it?"

"Until she started to actually like you." Tadashi’s laugh is short and aborted. "You don’t like her back?"

"Not like that." Kei’s eyebrows furrow. "I didn’t expect her to… ask me for a real relationship."

Kei can’t help but recall the entire conversation for the hundredth time today, like it’s a Vine playing on loop on Hinata’s phone. _"I want to stop pretending,"_ Nametsu had said, staring at him intently like he was supposed to intrinsically understand what she meant. _"I want to have a real relationship with you. So let’s date for real, okay?"_ Kei had looked back at her in open horror, and he’d been so upset at her for suddenly changing the rules and shifting the playing field that he’d…

He catches a hint of movement out of the corner of his eye; Tadashi is nodding as though everything is clear to him now. "So you defaulted to asshole, and made her cry."

As he stops at a red light, he runs a hand through his hair. "She wasn’t crying when I left. I wouldn’t have…" He stops himself, unwilling to elaborate. 

"Even you aren’t that big of a jerk," Tadashi agrees. "Huh. A fake girlfriend. That explains a lot."

"Oh?"

"Well, you started dating her out of nowhere, Tsukki. It took a year and a half before you stopped calling me 'Freckles' when we were in elementary school, and you still call all of your former bandmates by their last name even though we’ve known each other for, like, almost fifteen years. You don’t warm up to people easily." He hesitates. "And you never really showed any interest in…" Tadashi falters, and something in Kei’s gut twists. "In dating, I guess. So it was weird when all of a sudden Oikawa was announcing your whirlwind romance on his radio show, when I’d never heard anything about it."

"It’s not like you’re my confidant," Kei replies, as the light turns blue. He presses his foot to the accelerator a little too hard, and the car jolts forward. "I don’t tell you _everything_ , Yamaguchi."

"You don’t tell me anything," Tadashi corrects. "But I usually know, anyway, because I _know_ you."

Kei makes a skeptical noise in the back of his throat, but it’s mostly true. For what it’s worth, Tadashi probably does know him better than anyone else. "Whatever."

"You could tell me things," Tadashi says, after a long silence. "If you wanted to. It’s just that sometimes, when you’re upset, you do things you wouldn’t normally do."

The words prickle Kei’s skin, making him want to scratch at his arms until it stops. "Who died and made you Sawamura?"

"Tsukki!" Tadashi laughs, breaking the strange atmosphere in the car, and Kei reaches over to turn the radio up, but Tadashi smacks his hand away. "No, _now_ I want to hear about your new drama with Kuroo from Nekoma."

"What’s to tell? I knew I was filming soon but my co-star hadn’t been decided." Now that he knows it’s Kuroo, though, he’ll have to reread the entirety of the scripts for the first two episodes to see how he should be reacting. They’ll be playing best friends, after all. Kei shivers, and doesn’t think about the curl of Kuroo Tetsurou’s wide, cat-like mouth.

"What’s that look for?" Tadashi asks. "You don’t like him?"

"No opinion," answers Kei, and this time, when he goes to turn the radio up, Tadashi doesn’t stop him.

*

Kei is torn between surprise and resignation that Ukai hasn’t cancelled his single’s release press interview on Youth Club, but he dutifully puts on the outfit Takeda gives him to wear that matches the cover image, and submits to the make-up artist’s disapproving clucks about the circles under his eyes. 

"You need to sleep better, Tsukishima," she tells him, same as she always does, and he blinks at her, his contacts scratching uncomfortably. 

"I don’t purposefully stay awake to make your job harder," he says. "Promise."

"Hmmph." She tilts his jaw up to check if his foundation is even. "Still, a young handsome boy like you shouldn’t look so tired at the start of a promotional period." Kei shrugs, careful not to move his face too much, and she sighs. "I’m sorry to hear about all of this with Nametsu. It must be making it hard for you to sleep."

That’s somewhat true. Last night, Kei had stared at Nametsu’s number in his contacts list off and on for an hour, wondering if he should call her. He’s never been one for apologies, even when he’s in the wrong, and a part of him is angry at her, for making this into such a big deal. For switching things up on him without warning. 

Another part of him, of course, is mad at himself for starting any of this in the first place, and maybe it was bound to turn out like this, even if, for the life of him, Kei can’t figure out what would make Nametsu think Kei is someone it would be enjoyable to actually date, or what gave her the impression that he would feel that way about her when he’s always treated her so distantly. 

"Something else interesting will happen soon enough and the news will move on," Takeda says, saving Kei from having to answer the sympathetic make-up artist. "Ready?"

"He’s going to ask about her," replies Kei. "What should I say?"

"No comment," Takeda says, giving Kei an encouraging smile. "You’re not on trial. It’s a personal matter."

"Didn’t you and Ukai say just yesterday that I’m an idol, and my business is always public?"

"Well, to an extent." Takeda reaches up and claps him on the shoulder. "What that means is that it’s hard for you to keep secrets, not that you should have to explain yourself. But this is about your single album today, and Ukai sent out notice that questions about Nametsu will not be fielded. Oikawa will slyly ask anyway, and you don’t have to answer. You know how it goes."

"Yes," Kei replies, thinking of the hundreds upon hundreds of questions about his and Nametsu’s sex life, marriage plans, and co-starring opportunities he’s dodged over the past two years. Better, he thinks, than some of the other questions he could have been asked, that had been bubbling up on the gossip forums in the lead up to him agreeing to date Nametsu. "I know how it goes."

The studio audience for Oikawa Tooru’s early afternoon talk show is, as usual, ninety percent women, all carrying fans with Oikawa’s face on it. Tsukishima _hates_ doing Oikawa’s show on the best of days, because as much as he respects Oikawa’s sheer prowess at being an idol, he also knows that he can never let down his guard when the other man wants to know something. Today, though, stepping out in front of a live studio audience of devoted Oikawa fans feels somewhat akin to facing a firing squad, in the wake of the near constant barrage of unfavorable coverage about his and Nametsu’s break-up in the news since yesterday, and above all, he wishes this whole thing weren’t _live._

The audience gives him lukewarm applause as he enters, and he catches a faint _"doesn’t he have any shame?"_ whispered-shouted from one woman in the front row to another, and he barely suppresses a wince. 

The first question about Nametsu doesn’t come until near the end of the short interview, after questions about Kei’s new movie, still in theaters, and the upcoming promotional video trickle up as they always inevitably do, of less interest than Kei’s favorite color or whatever silly thing everyone’s interested in at the moment, like the answer’s changed since Kei last answered it ten months ago. 

"So," Oikawa says, "it’s a surprise you’re releasing a breakup song at a time like this." Kei’s back immediately stiffens, and the audience twitters. "Your last two tracks have been about love. Is it a tell-all track?" Oikawa’s eyes are full to the brim with amusement, and Kei can appreciate a healthy amount of schadenfreude when it’s not aimed at him, but right now it is, so he scowls. 

"The track was prepared three months ago," Kei says, quietly, carefully. "When I release tracks have nothing to do with when I write them."

"Even so," Oikawa says, easing comfortably back into his seat and crossing his legs. "We’re all surprised about the timing, right after the end of a fairytale romance." Oikawa covers his mouth. "I shouldn’t talk about that, right? I’m sorry, Tsukishima."

 _Are you?_ Kei wants to say, but instead he just sighs, swallowing the frustration and the humiliation and knowing he can’t lash out at Oikawa. Not now, and not like this. "The song isn’t about a breakup, actually," he says tightly. "It’s about unrequited love."

Oikawa blinks, surprised, not expecting Kei to give an answer like that, since Kei’s previous interviews with Oikawa have always been more like one-sided banter, with Oikawa doing his best to interpret Kei’s straightfaced yeses and nos into something more interesting for the audience. "Unrequited love?"

"Yes," Kei says. "Sorry if it’s not the story you want." He says it so chilly that Oikawa’s eyes widen, and then Oikawa, an expert as always, laughs and waves his hand. 

"No, no, I don’t want a particular story. I was just curious about the track. Now we have our answer!" And then Oikawa’s moving on, introducing the next guest and taking some of the heat off of Kei with his usual foppish charm, and Kei lets his muscles unknot as his heart rate returns to normal.

After the show, he wanders off set to the private restrooms without waiting for Takeda, who has probably gone to get Kei a giant coffee, trying to recall the route that will have him encountering the fewest number of people. He walks briskly, ignoring the stares of a few off-duty sound guys and turning the corner into the wider hallway, wishing he had his headphones. 

Of course, in his haste, he bumps into someone, catching his weight against the wall as the other person mutters a swear under their breath, and Kei’s lips part slightly in surprise as he sees it’s Kuroo Tetsurou, holding a paper cup, with water spilled down the front of his white button-down shirt. 

Kuroo looks up then, perfectly manicured brows displaying equal surprise, and then he grins. "We have to stop meeting like this," he says, bringing a hand up to catch a droplet of water dripping down the column of his throat. Kei’s eyes track a second droplet that follows in its wake, and doesn’t look away until he gets to the now see-through white of Kuroo’s shirt clinging to the strong muscles of his chest. 

Kei licks his lips. "What are you doing here?"

"Filming," says Kuroo. "What else? Why? Think I’m following you, Tsukishima?" The way Kei’s name rolls off of his tongue is unbearable, really, like he’s exaggerating it to point out how much he really wants to be saying _Tsukki_ , and Kei scowls at him for the presumption even as the heat climbs up his neck. 

"You keep showing up places I’ve never seen you before, so how should I know?" Kei tugs on the collar of his big yellow sweater, trying to make it easier to breath, and hopes it isn’t obvious he’s flustered.

"Hmm," Kuroo says, and this time, when he goes to wipe his neck, he’s slower, his thumb lingering on the arterial vein, at the pulse point, and making Kei’s own pulse speed up. "You’ve ruined my shirt." He sounds more amused than put out about it, and Kei narrows his eyes.

"You ruined my phone." Kei looks right into Kuroo’s eyes, and is once again startled by the unusual color. He’d hardly noticed it when he’d seen pictures of Kuroo in the past in magazines, but face to face with him, it’s impossible not to notice that the dark brown of them seems to glow golden at the edges, like a cat in the dark. "Turnabout is fair play."

"Do you play fair?" Kuroo chuckles, and drops his hand, and Kei takes a deep breath. "You’ve got that face again."

"What face?" Kei’s phone chimes in his pocket, but he ignores it, watching Kuroo like he’d watch a dangerous snake he’s not sure isn’t poisonous.

"The 'I need a drink' face." Kuroo’s mouth is too expressive. Kei hates looking at it. "Ready to take me up on it?" He taps his lower lip, like he can read Kei’s mind and wants to punish him. "Not now though. Filming, remember?"

"You’re very determined." Kei could, actually, use a drink, but what he really wants to do right now is go home and work on a song, or something, not add to the already considerable confusion of his thoughts. "Why?"

"Why not?" Kuroo reaches out, and before Kei can blink, pokes his nose. "Where are your glasses, four-eyes?"

Kei grabs Kuroo’s hand. It’s smooth, and warm, though there are calluses on the tips of his long, thin fingers that look a lot like the ones on Azumane’s. Maybe, Kei thinks, Kuroo plays the guitar. He squashes the thought as quickly as it rises up, and glares at Kuroo. "Are you always this annoying, or am I special?"

"You’re definitely special," Kuroo says, voice dropping into something lower, smoother, and this time there’s no doubt that Kuroo sees his blush, because his lips curl up at the corners with unhidden pleasure. 

"Kuroo, what’s taking so long?!" Kei steps back as Kuroo’s posture straightens, putting space between them that Kei is just noticing _should_ have been between them all along. Kei looks over his shoulder to see someone dressed identically to Kuroo, his hair shaved into a mohawk and an impatient expression on his wide face. Yamamoto, Kei recalls vaguely. Dancer. Back up vocals. "We’re waiting on you to film! How can it take you twenty minutes to get water, huh?!"

"I’m coming, Yamamoto," Kuroo says, easily, the intensity of his eyes gone and a casual smile on his face. "Just bumped into Tsukishima here and wanted to say hello to my new favorite co-star."

Yamamoto puffs out an almost aggressive sounding laugh. "Do it some other time, all right? I’ve got a hot date tonight!"

"Jacking off with the heater on isn’t a hot date," replies Kuroo, and he returns his gaze to Kei. "Hmmm, I’ll give you a call, later." Kei rolls his eyes, and Kuroo laughs. "You don’t believe me?"

"You must have something better to do than piss me off."

"I’m not pissing you off," Kuroo says, plucking his wet shirt with his thumb and index finger and calling Kei’s gaze back to the wet fabric. "Do you think I’ll get in trouble for this?"

"I hope so," Kei says, and then he’s easing around Kuroo, and continuing toward the restrooms, once again leaving a chuckling Kuroo behind him.

"There you are!" Takeda says, when Kei returns to the set, carefully staying out of Oikawa’s line of sight in case that makes Oikawa think, for some godforsaken reason, Kei wants to talk to him. "Where’d you go?" He hands Kei a giant cardboard cup of Starbucks, and checks his watch. "Ukai wants to meet with us at three, so we’d better go."

As Kei follows Takeda out to his van, he thinks to check his phone, remembering it had chimed while he’d been dealing with Kuroo. He carefully accepts the text with the nail of his thumb, avoiding the cracked glass, and sees it’s a message from Nametsu. 

_I’m so sorry about all this, Kei,_ it says, and Kei stares down at it, wondering if he should reply, and say it’s fine, even though mostly, he thinks it probably isn’t. 

"Everything all right?" Takeda asks, standing by the open elevator, and Kei tucks his phone away. "Your phone is broken?"

"Dropped it yesterday," Kei replies shortly, taking three long strides to catch up with his manager.

"There’s no time now, but if you drop by the agency tomorrow, I’ll take you to get a new one," Takeda says. 

"Okay," Kei replies, and gets into the elevator.

*

That night, as Kei prepares for bed, he pulls up Nametsu’s text again. He thinks about the video, and about Tadashi, sitting next to him in the car with words on the tip of his tongue that Kei doesn’t want to hear, and about the way Kuroo Tetsurou’s shirt had clung, wet, to suntanned skin. 

It takes him hours to fall asleep. 

*

He scans the entertainment news headlines in the morning to see how the dust has settled from yesterday’s appearance, careful not to cut his thumb on the shattered glass of his phone screen as he scrolls through. Both of their PR teams have released statements that are mostly neutral, and reporters had been, if not kind, than at least polite at the conference yesterday, but Kei’s not silly enough to think the people interested in these sorts of things haven’t taken sides. He hasn’t checked his public Twitter or fanboards, yet, but he’s sure they’ll upset him— positive messages about not knowing the truth will be buried in cruel comments about either him or Nametsu, and he doesn’t want to deal with it.

He’s about to toss his phone aside when it chimes in his hands, signaling an incoming text message. It’s from an unknown number, and Kei frowns at it for a few seconds before tapping to open it. _do you maybe need a drink today, tsukki?_ it reads, and Kei stares at it disbelievingly for a moment before carefully pulling up his keyboard to reply. 

_How did you get this number, Kuroo?_

_you gave it to me, remember?_ , says the reply, only a few seconds later, and Kei can just _imagine_ that smirk, even having only seen it twice in person, and that makes him want to throw his phone into a wall, so maybe it will stop working completely. _i’ve just been too busy to use it until now_

Kei’s vaguely impressed he remembered the string of rattled off numbers, but maybe he shouldn’t be, considering that they both memorize things as part of their job. _Don’t you have anything more productive to do?_ he types, wondering why he’s even bothering to respond. Usually he only answers texts from Nametsu or Yachi, since everyone else knows to send him e-mails with anything important. 

_could be reading my script hahah_. The three dots on the screen taunt Kei as he waits for the rest. _would be more productive with my new tv bff. and a drink._

 _In your dreams._

_how did you know?_ Kei flushes, then tosses the phone aside like it’s on fire, crawling out of bed and making himself head to the shower. He still feels the weight of the past couple of days in every limb, but with Kuroo’s messages to distract his thoughts, it’s easier not to keep flashing back to that awful conversation with Nametsu. Instead, he thinks about the way Kuroo’s eyes shifted colors as he teased Kei, and how his hand had felt, around Kei’s forearm, when he’d grabbed him to keep him from falling. It sits hot in the pit of his stomach, and he turns the shower to cold to rinse the soap out of his hair.

He returns to his bedroom to hear his phone ringing, and when he picks it up, gingerly, with a wet hand, he’s almost unsurprised to see it’s that same unknown number. And he’s not sure what, exactly, makes him answer, but he does, holding the broken screen away from his cheek. "Do you practice getting on people’s nerves?" 

"Is that any way to speak to your new favorite co-worker?" Kuroo’s laughter is just as disarming over the phone. "Am I really bothering you, Tsukishima? If I am, I’ll honestly leave you alone, I promise. Sugawara told me you were a bit difficult to get to know, so I’ve been pushy."

"Sugawara. Of course." Kei shivers, cold water beading up on his skin, and he tosses his towel onto the bed and heads for his dresser. Inside is a messy pile of sweatpants, and Kei grabs the ones on top. "I’m not a challenge. I’m not here as a test so you can figure out how charming you are. I’m also not secretly lonely, or in dire need of anyone to reach out to me, no matter what he told you."

"He didn’t say any of that," Kuroo replies. "He said you’re a good person, but you don’t really have much interest in small talk or false politeness, so I shouldn’t expect those kinds of overtures from you." Kuroo’s slow inhale has Kei crumpling the cotton of the waist of his sweatpants as he pulls them on. "So look, we’re going to be spending a lot of time together. I figured it was worth the effort to get to know you because it will make both of our lives easier. Obviously I won’t force that on you, if you really object."

It’s more straightforward than Kei had expected, from his two previous encounters with the man, and caught off-guard, Kei finds himself blurting out a "fine," when the silence has stretched long enough that even he’s uncomfortable with it. "One drink. No bars."

Kuroo’s pleased hum almost has Kei taking the agreement back. "Yeah, that might not look so good for you right now."

"I’m going to hang up if you make a joke about my relationship with Nametsu." 

"I won’t," Kuroo says, and Kei thinks about that half-lidded stare Kuroo had leveled him with two nights, weighing him up and seeming, somehow, to see more than Kei wanted. "I was just stating a fact." Then, after another inhale, Kuroo adds: "How about my apartment, then? We can do a read-through of the script, too, if you’d like."

A pinprick of pain makes Kei realize he’s gripping his phone too tightly, the shattered glass from his screen digging into the tips of his thumb and forefinger. Kei should say no, definitely, because he still doesn’t know anything about Kuroo beyond the way his head tilts when he’s teasing or tiny anecdotes from the entertainment news. He also doesn’t like the way just talking to him over the phone is making him _react_ — it’s annoying, and inconvenient, and a million other unpleasant adjectives that Kei’s too tired to think of right now, and signing up for an entire evening of more is probably a terrible idea. 

But. They’ll be working together for at least five months, which means Kei will have to build up an immunity to him eventually, and a part of him… a part of him likes how much of his attention Kuroo commands, because it doesn’t let him think about Nametsu’s text, or about the slow sales of his single. And it is, after all, just a drink. "What time?"

"After eight," Kuroo says. "I’ve got album jacket shooting until six, and we always run late because Lev can’t stand still for more than a half second at a time." He coughs. "I’ll text you my address on your _broken phone_." His tone changes, then, to something deeper, lower, and Kei bites his lip. "See you later, Tsukishima." 

The call ends, and Kei stares at the phone in his hand with disgust before tossing it aside and going to find a shirt.

*

"You look just miserable enough that if someone sees you, it won’t add to the scandal," Nishinoya says, in his default volume of _loud_ , slapping Kei on the back as he walks out of Takeda’s office. "And by that, I mean you’re dressed like _garbage_. How you holding up, kid?!"

"I’m only one year younger than you," Kei says, not for the first time, and Nishinoya, ignoring him, just laughs.

"Don’t let a breakup get you down, Tsukishima! Even I, Karasuno’s number one high notes vocalist, have had a breakup or two!" He shakes his ungelled hair out of his eyes, the blond streak mixing in with the back without product to keep it in place. "So cheer up!"

"Consider me cheered." Kei tries to navigate around him, but Nishinoya wraps a hand about his wrist to catch him before he can walk away.

"Wait, wait," he says. "Takeda called me up because he said you were going to go buy a new phone, and he has to take Hinata somewhere."

Kei crosses his arms, the plastic material of his puffy winter coat squeaking. "That’s right. So?"

"Soooo, I’m gonna go with you! Solidarity and all that." Nishinoya peers up at him. " _Also_ I can interact with the paparazzi that approach us, if any do, because you’re not any good at it."

Kei’s eye twitches involuntarily in annoyance, but then, creeping up behind that, is an overwhelming sense of _relief_. "You don’t have to," he says, shoving his hands into his pocket. "I’m an adult."

"Yeah, I don’t have to," replies Nishinoya, then he puffs out his chest. "But I’m the world’s best senpai, so I’m gonna." He offers Kei a peace sign and a wide grin, like he always does, the whole world a concert stage. "Say nice things about me to Kiyoko later as thanks!"

"I’ll consider it," says Kei, falling into shorter steps to keep pace with Nishinoya as they walk down the hall, tension loosening down his spine at the familiar presence of his bandmate. It’s been weeks and weeks since he’s seen Nishinoya, but it always feels like no time’s passed at all. 

"No really," Nishinoya says, more quietly, as they step into the elevator to head down to the first floor. "How you holding up?"

Kei closes his eyes and leans back against the cold metal wall of the elevator. "I’m fine," says Kei. "I’m always fine."

"You always _seem_ fine," says Nishinoya, "but just because your face barely moves, that doesn’t mean your brain isn’t overthinking things. 'Cause even if you pretend like you don’t care about anything, you always cared a lot about the band, and you care about your acting career, and your friends, too, and that probably includes Nametsu Mai."

And yeah, of course Kei _cares_ about stuff. He wouldn’t be here right now if he didn’t. Only it’s one thing to care about stuff, and an entirely different thing for other people to know he cares, and Kei likes to keep as many people as possible in the dark about that. He swallows, and puts a finger in his ear. "Sorry, are you talking?"

"Stubborn asshole," Nishinoya says, but he’s laughing. "Let’s go get you a new phone." He rubs his hands together as the elevator dings on their floor. "I’m going to put myself first on speed-dial!"

Kei rolls his eyes, and follows Nishinoya out of the elevator. 

"I mean it though," Nishinoya says, elbowing Kei in the side. "You can talk to any of us, probably. Even Kageyama, even if you both pretend to hate each other. Karasuno’s a team. We’ve got your back."

"What if I really am a jerk that cheated on Nametsu Mai?" Kei pushes open the glass doors of the Ukai Agency’s back entrance. There’s a phone store three blocks away, in walking distance, and besides, if they drive, Nishinoya will insist on taking his bright red muscle car instead of Kei’s sedate black Honda.

"Then me and Tanaka will kick your ass," Nishinoya tells him. "But you can still talk to us, you know? Because we’re your bandmates, even if the band has gone its separate ways. We survived all that stuff together, and got here together. _Team_."

Kei takes off his glasses to clean them on the edge of his oversized t-shirt, and wishes he’d have brought his headphones. "I didn’t."

"Didn’t what?" Nishinoya’s got a spring in his step, like they’re off on an adventure, instead of a mundane errand with the threat of vulturous papparrazi hanging over Kei’s head like some public-opinion wielded guillotine. 

"Cheat on Nametsu Mai." 

"That’s good," Nishinoya says, and Kei’s glad he’s too tall for Nishinoya to do anything embarrassing like pinch his cheek. "I’d hate to have to kick your ass right after I became number one in your speed dial."

*

Brunch with Nametsu had gone something like this: 

Kei had showed up to meet his girlfriend, wearing an oversized Karasuno sweatshirt that had clearly been made for a yeti under his largest puffy coat, face still covered in make-up from a morning photoshoot for a baseball cap brand he endorses. Nametsu had been dressed much more nicely, in black leather boots and tights and a dress made of some pretty cream material that made her look like an angel. She’d clearly taken extra care with her appearance, and Kei had wondered if she had a magazine interview or something afterward, since usually when they met for brunch she wore comfy, casual sweaters and the floaty skirts she was known for amongst her fans. 

They’d both ordered eggs. Kei had been quiet, as usual, and Nametsu had been talkative, also as usual. She’d told him a few stories about Haiba Arisa, a friend of hers in a girl group under the same agency as Nekoma, and Kei had taken note of a few key facts in case he was asked about Nametsu’s friends in an interview, as often happened. He’d told her, briefly, about his new single, and what kinds of travel he might be doing for his new drama, next spring. It had been nothing out of the ordinary, until Nametsu had said: "Why don’t I travel with you for part of your filming schedule?"

Kei had furrowed his brows, absently pushing up on his glasses when they slid down his nose. "Why would you do that? I wouldn’t have much time to go out and have my photo taken with you."

"Just so we can spend time together," Nametsu’d said. "I’ll have three weeks off then, while my variety show is on break, and my new drama doesn’t start filming until next May."

"Spend time together?" Kei narrowed his eyes at her, and she laughed at him, reaching out across the table to wipe at the corner of his mouth with her thumb. "What are you—?"

He could feel the situation changing, flipping upside down and turning inside out, as her hand lingers, her fingers tracing the line of his cheekbone before she dropped her hand again. "I’d like to get to know you better," she’d said. "I’d like to get to know you seriously, Tsukishima."

Kei had set down his fork. "You know me well enough for this to work." Kei gestures between them. "It’s not like I go around baring my soul to everyone."

"I’m not everyone." Nametsu had nervously tucked a strand of hair behind his ear. "I’m Nametsu Mai, and I’ve been your girlfriend for two years."

Kei reached for his tea and took a long sip. "Pretend," he’d said. "My pretend girlfriend."

Nametsu swallowed, her eyelashes fluttering, and then she’d met his eyes squarely. He’d always admired her for the way she squared her shoulders and asked for what she wanted. Kei’s never been good at that. He’d learned to manipulate people into doing what he wanted instead, and maybe that’s what had made Nametsu’s offer even worth a second thought, back when this had all started. "I want to try dating you for real."

And Kei, who’d slept only a few hours the night before, up late studying scripts and composing rock songs he’ll never be allowed to release as singles, hadn’t been expecting it; he hadn’t had time to plan out how he’d twist his way out of a locked room murder like that without burning the whole damn building down, and so instead of easing her out of the idea, he’d looked right back at her, meeting her earnest gaze, and said: "I would never, ever date a someone like you for real." Both their eyes had widened in response, and Kei, not sure what that statement had given away, had panicked, tossing his napkin on the table and stood up from the table. "I’m leaving first," he’d said then, as Nametsu just stared up at him, lower lip wobbling slightly. He’d heard his own heart hammering wildly in his chest as he mumbled another goodbye and swiftly left the restaurant, playing the words back in his head over and over and over again. 

_I would never, ever date someone like you for real._

It was pretty close, he’d thought, choking on his own bile as he sat for a few moments in the driver’s seat of his car, forehead pressed to the steering wheel, to the truth. Because by _someone like you_ , Kei had just meant girls in general, but he’d long since resigned himself to never telling anyone about that at all until he’d long left the spotlight.

"Shit," he’d muttered to himself as he started the car. " _Shit._ "

*

Kuroo Tetsurou lives on the edge of Azabu, not far from Aoyama, in a building nestled into a cluster of small cafes and bars. It’s not far, Kei thinks, from where Yachi lives with Shimizu and Michimiya, though he’s only been to their place once, for a housewarming a couple years ago, since his fans can be weird about him visiting female idols, even the ones he’s known long enough that they might as well be sisters. 

He doesn’t drive, instead calling one of the Ukai Agency’s vetted taxi drivers to pick him up and take him to the address Kuroo had texted him. It feels ridiculous, to be going to Kuroo Tetsurou’s _home_ , the night after a major scandal and a week before he’ll be forced to spend a considerable amount of time with the other man. It feels even more ridiculous when he’s recognized at the front desk, the doorman frowning at him as he directs Kei upstairs. He wonders if this visit will be on the entertainment news tomorrow, and he hopes not.

Kuroo answers the door wearing a worn out red tracksuit, the pants sitting low on his hips and the top zipped up halfway, revealing a tanned throat and a line of glitter extending down beyond where Kei can see. He’s still wearing his makeup from his jacket shoot, eyeliner thick and dark along his waterline and dragging Kei’s attention to the narrow corners of his eyes, and the golden color of them. His lips are stained pink at the center, standing out from the uneven foundation streaked across his cheeks, and when he smiles the pink seems to spread into the shape of a heart. 

"You made it," he says. "I wasn’t sure you would actually show up, Tsukishima. After all, that broken phone of yours has been keeping us apart."

Kei, taking a deep breath and forcing himself to meet Kuroo’s eyes, raises an eyebrow. "Bought a new one today."

"I heard," says Kuroo. "You were spotted. You have some intense fans." He whistles, and moves aside, gesturing for Kei to come inside.. "Someone’s popular."

"You’re one to talk," Kei replies, and then he awkwardly steps forward, letting Kuroo usher him into the house, stopping in the entryway to slip out of his shoes. "I can’t go anywhere without seeing your cologne ads."

"You must be confusing me with Oikawa Tooru." Kuroo has one hand on the wall, watching as Kei unzips his coat and hangs it on the hook. "I really am surprised you came, by the way. I’ve been preparing to be stood-up."

"Is that why you didn’t bother to shower?" 

Laughing, Kuroo’s mascara-heavy eyelashes flutter. "You don’t like this look?" He casually brings a hand up to his neck and drags a finger down from the center of his tanned throat, between his collarbones, until he gets to the zipper, picking up glitter and holding it out to Kei to show him. "It’s been too long since you’ve done a music video if you think this is anything."

Kei doesn’t answer, stepping into a pair of slippers, dark grey, and then moving further into the apartment. He can feel Kuroo’s eyes on him as he looks around, taking in the simple dark furniture and the hardwood floors. The entertainment system, in contrast to the rest of the room, is a total mess; a jumble of cords and gaming systems. "You like games?"

"Why Tsukishima, are you trying to get to know me, now? You’ll spoil me." Kei turns to look at him, nonplussed, and Kuroo’s smile is a little wider than before, curling into his famous smirk. His hair, a carefully sculpted mess, falls across his forehead as he leans forward. "Kenma likes video games, and we play a lot. So, what can I get you to drink?"

Kei licks his lips and looks away again, resuming his perusal of the apartment, lingering this time on the huge collection of athletics magazines on the coffee table, along with two empty tea mugs. "What do you have?" 

"Hmm," Kuroo says. "I’ve got three red wines— I know one of them’s a merlot, but not sure about the other two. Bokuto brought them to my birthday party and we never opened them. I’ve got rum and cola, and I’ve got a few nice bourbons."

"Bourbon," Kei says, and turns back to Kuroo. "You can choose."

"You should sit down," Kuroo says. "Promise my furniture doesn’t bite." He winks, and Kei curls his hands into the material of his sweater. "Not making the same promise about myself, of course."

"Disgusting," replies Kei, throat dry, and Kuroo chuckles, walking across the living room to open a cabinet against the far wall. He pulls out two glass bottles and looks between them. "Kenma is Kozume? How long have you known him?"

Kuroo looks over his shoulder. "Are you trying to collect soundbytes for interviews?"

"Wasn’t that the point of this?" Kei shrugs. "The whole co-stars and getting to know each other thing?"

"No." Kuroo returns one bottle to the cabinet. "I mean, that might have been my intention before we bumped into each other. But I think you’re pretty interesting."

"It’s not mutual." Kei slowly sits down in one of the large black armchairs. "What about me is interesting, exactly?"

"Everyone calls you 'The Ice Prince'." Kuroo grabs two tumblers, holding them both in one hand, long fingers curling around patterned glass. "You don’t seem very icy to me, though, Tsukishima Kei."

"I must be slipping." Kei watches Kuroo set the two tumblers down on the coffee table, pushing aside a few magazines and setting down coasters on the bared space. Then he pours a finger of alcohol in each one, and slides one so that it’s within Kei’s reach. "I assure you, I’m plenty icy. I don’t particularly like most people."

"And you don’t like to be called heartbreaker," Kuroo murmurs, sprawling out on the couch, his legs splayed wide and his gaze heavy on Kei. He holds his bourbon in a loose grip with his thumb and forefinger as he seems to consider Kei. " _And_ you blush when I tease you."

"I don’t blush." Kei picks up the tumbler, and takes a long sip. The bourbon burns as he swallows, fire in his throat. "Not my image."

"Of course," Kuroo says, and he takes his own sip. "So, what makes someone who doesn’t particularly like most people become an idol?"

Kei thinks of his oversized studio headphones, and hundreds of half-finished songs on his computer, lyrics scrawled in countless old notebooks scattered around his apartment. He thinks of hours learning choreography in a basement room with not enough ventilation, and that feeling of euphoria whenever he gets it right. He also thinks of his brother, sitting on the front steps of the Ukai Agency, waiting for Kei to take him home, and how small Aki had looked, in the shadow of that huge building with its large glass doors. "None of your business," is what he says, licking bourbon off of his teeth.

"You’re shit at variety," Kuroo says thoughtfully, "and you barely talk during interviews. I watched one about a year ago— when you were on Today Radio with Yachi Hitoka, I guess— and you looked like you were in the chair at the dentist, getting a cavity filled."

Kei shifts in his seat. "Are you a Yachi fan, then?" 

Kuroo licks his lower lip, slowly, like he’s catching the bourbon from his last sip. "How do you know I’m not a Tsukki fan?"

"It’s Tsukishima," Kei says automatically, and then he sighs, returning Kuroo’s inquisitive stare. "I… Don’t enjoy interviews and variety."

"Such a key part of idol life." Kuroo’s watching him from under darkened lashes. There’s something shimmery in his eyeliner, too, that catches the light, and Kei’s throat is so dry.

"You probably love that kind of thing." Kei swirls his bourbon in its glass. "Since you seem to like talking to strangers."

"I don’t mind it," agrees Kuroo easily. "Kenma hates it, though. He’s like you. Barely says a word. He doesn’t look so pissed off while he’s sitting there, though."

"The questions are always the same." He changes his tone of voice to something closer to how Hinata speaks, bubbly and excited about nothing. "What’s your ideal type? What kinds of foods do you like? What do you have to say to your fans to thank them for their support?" Kei drops the voice, and pushes up his glasses. "Boring. Maybe if I were allowed to talk about something I cared about."

"Oh," Kuroo says, and he’s sitting up, and leaning forward. "You’re actually interested in music, aren’t you?"

Kei blinks at him in surprise, which he quickly covers by schooling his face back to neutral. "Aren’t we all?"

"No," Kuroo says. His knee brushes Kei’s. "Do you like acting, too?" 

"You’re so _nosy_ ," Kei huffs out, and Kuroo’s smirk is a little more terrible when he’s standing this close.

"And _you_ ," Kuroo says, coming in just a little closer, "are blushing again." Kei makes an exasperated noise in the back of his throat, and Kuroo’s laugh is wicked. "It’s cute."

"I’m leaving," Kei says, but he doesn’t move. He just watches as Kuroo settles back into the sofa again, setting his glass on a side table and picking up a copy of the drama script Kei’s got on his own living room table. "You actually wanted to run the script?"

"I said I did, when I called." Kuroo runs his thumb up and down the spine of the packet. "Didn’t I?"

Kuroo, Kei decides, as he takes another pull of bourbon, has nice hands. Nice everything really, even if his features are too sharp and his smirk too taunting. "I thought you were making an excuse," he says.

"Yet you came anyway," Kuroo muses, and Kei clutches his glass a little tighter at his own mistake. "See? _Interesting_."

"I’m just playing nice," Kei replies. "I’ve been told I should try that more." It's practically a refrain from management at this point, even if this whole Nametsu thing is his first _real_ scandal. 

Tapping the script, Kuroo’s mouth relaxed into something softer than a smirk, but no less dangerous. "You can play rough with me, if you’d like." He pats the space next to him on the sofa. "Come here."

Kei draws his brows together. "Why?"

"You didn’t bring your copy, did you?" Kuroo's so relaxed, as he looks at Kei, and Kei, in comparison, feels wound as tight as a spring. "We can share."

"Are you trying to see how far you can push me?" Kei empties his glass and sets it down on the table, not bothering with the coaster.

"Maybe," Kuroo teases. "Or I could just be practical." He pats the sofa again.

Heaving a long sigh, and pushing down the twisted anticipation clawing up the inside of his ribs, Kei moves to sit next to Kuroo. Close like this, he can smell hairspray, and a hint of powdery makeup, and feel Kuroo's body heat settling over him like a blanket. 

"Was that so hard?" Kuroo flips open the script. "We're playing childhood best friends. Do you have one in real life? Or is that none of my business, too?"

Kei's breath catches in his chest as Kuroo's arm presses against his. "Yamaguchi Tadashi," he says. "We joined Ukai Agency together."

"I thought that was just fan speculation." Kuroo is looking at him again, and this close, Kei can see the foundation-covered blemish on his cheek, and that his eyeshadow is a pale gold. 

"Everything you say makes it sound like you're secretly in my fan club," Kei manages, dropping his gaze to the script. "Do you not have enough to keep you busy?"

"Hey, I'm plenty busy!" Kuroo laughs, and bumps Kei lightly with his shoulder. "I just keep up with other idols." Kuroo's fingers start to trace the setting information at the top of the third page of the script, and Kei tries to think about Kuroo's chipped black nail polish instead of the way he drags out his vowels when he speaks. "Especially the pretty ones."

Kei freezes, afraid to look up suddenly because he's unsure what expression might be on his face. "There's no one here to witness your fan-service, you realize."

"Not relevant," Kuroo answers, "as I'm not doing any."

Kei turns that over in his mind a few times, unsure what to make of it. "Does your agency know how much you enjoy complimenting other male idols? You’ve been severely under-marketed."

"You don’t think I’m pretty, too?" Kuroo’s words are careful, and light, but when Kei turns to look at him, Kuroo’s eyes are serious, and Kei knows he’s not imagining the spark of interest when Kei shifts, pressing their thighs together all the way down to the knee. "I’m disappointed."

"I think you’re annoying," Kei says, tone harsher than he means it, and… Well, he can think of a million reasons not to reach out grab a handful of Kuroo’s jacket and pull him in: They’re working on a drama together, he doesn’t know anything about Kuroo, he might be reading this all wrong. None of those reasons, though, seem to compete with the part of him that has been feeling adrift and unsettled for the last few days, and Kei picks up the script from Kuroo’s lap, fingertips brushing firm thighs. "Can you be professional on set?"

"What?" Kuroo watches Kei set the script on the table, on top of a magazine about the Japanese men’s volleyball team. "I’m always professional."

And in ten years of being famous, Kei’s never heard a bad thing about Kuroo Tetsurou beyond the fact that he likes to party a little too much, so Kei maybe believes him, and that’s enough for Kei to set aside Tadashi’s voice in his head, saying _It’s just that sometimes, when you’re upset, you do things you wouldn’t normally do,_ like some sort of awful angel on his shoulder, and turn his body so that he’s facing Kuroo on the sofa, his left leg falling over Kuroo’s right as Kuroo startles at the contact. 

Kuroo’s mouth is close enough that all Kei has to do is tilt his head slightly to harshly press their lips together, and Kuroo makes a sound of muffled surprise, but then his hand comes up to cup the back of Kei’s neck, the callused pads of his fingers hot on the skin under Kei’s ear, and he kisses him back. Kuroo’s mouth tastes of bourbon, and when it parts open with a moan, Kei doesn’t hesitate to lick into his mouth, running his tongue along the back of Kuroo’s teeth and picking up hints of lip gloss from the corners of his lips. 

"Oh," Kuroo says, when they pull apart briefly for air, and the bubble of nervous anticipation and hesitance and everything else sitting just behind his sternum bursts, rushing warm through his chest and extending out through his limbs as he straddles Kuroo, not minding the way Kuroo’s other hand drops down to cup his hip, burning through Kei’s jeans. "Not icy at all, Tsukishima."

"Shut up," Kei says, and then he kisses Kuroo again, this time making sure to suck Kuroo’s lower lip into his mouth, dragging his teeth as he lets it slip free and earning another groan. Kuroo’s hand at his neck slips up into Kei’s hair, pulling as he tilts Kei’s head to kiss him deeper, the nails of his hand at Kei’s hip digging in enough Kei can feel it through his clothes. "Just kiss me and. Shut. Up."

"If you insist," Kuroo says, lips moving to the corner of Kei’s mouth, and then his cheek, before peppering the line of Kei’s jaw and biting lightly on Kei’s earlobe. Kei’s hips jerk, and he hisses, and Kuroo chuckles, hot breath against Kei’s neck. "I warned you I bite." Then, before Kei can respond, he opens his mouth on the skin just under Kei’s ear and sucks, leaving a wet kiss and trailing down until he reaches the junction of Kei’s shoulder and neck and does it again.

Hissing as Kuroo scrapes his teeth along the sensitive line of his throat, Kei grinds down, harshly, and feels Kuroo’s burgeoning erection underneath his ass, and it only makes Kei harder. Kuroo’s hand moves from his hip, then, and slips down the back of Kei’s jeans, under the elastic waist of his underwear. 

"This all right?" Kuroo asks, squeezing Kei’s ass, and Kei opens his eyes to look at him. He hadn’t even realized he’d closed them in the first place. His glasses are all fogged up, and askew enough that parts of Kuroo’s face are blurry, but he can see the flush of desire across his cheeks and crawling down his throat, visible even through his foundation. His eyeliner is smeared, now, but it only makes his eyes seem brighter. 

"If you’re clean, yeah," Kei says. He exhales heavily, and brings his mouth back down to Kuroo’s, kissing him almost gently as he thinks about how long it’s been since he’s kissed someone, and how good Kuroo’s voice sounds, all rough with want. "Yeah, it’s—" Kuroo catches the words with his mouth, more hungry this time, and the taste of bourbon is all but gone, leaving behind just warmth and the slick press of Kuroo’s tongue against the roof of his mouth. Kei takes it, and gives as good as he gets, relishing the heat of Kuroo’s hand where it’s spread out across skin and the press of Kuroo’s cock as he rolls his hips up. He wonders if they’ll come like this, still clothed, sitting in Kuroo’s living room, practically strangers even though Kei thinks he’s memorized the curl of Kuroo’s lips under his own. 

"I’m clean. Tested just last month." Then Kei’s being moved, shifted: He pants, trying to catch his breath, as Kuroo presses him into the couch, slotting his knees just outside Kei’s hips and running a hand up Kei’s stomach, dragging Kei’s sweatshirt with it. His fingers burn lines up his chest, and it’s been so long since Kei’s been touched that he feels like he’s being set alight. "You’re so _pretty_ ," Kuroo murmurs, and Kei tries to scowl at him, wants to scowl at him, but words get stuck in his throat as Kuroo undoes the top button of his jeans, smeared eyeliner doing nothing to diminish the power of his eyes. "Didn’t know how I was going to film a drama with you and look at anything else."

"You talk too much," Kei manages, and Kuroo laughs, curling forward to leave a kiss on Kei’s stomach. Kei trembles at the odd intimacy of it, feeling stupid for dwelling on something like that when Kuroo’s hands are dragging his jeans and underwear down low enough to bare his cock, letting it fall swollen and pink against his stomach. 

Kei must be blushing, because Kuroo is smirking up at him from under his eyelashes. "Cute," he says, and he reaches up, toward Kei’s glasses. 

Swatting his hand away, Kei glares at him. "Don’t touch those," he says, and Kuroo’s laugh blows warm air on his cock. The muscles in Kei’s thighs twitch.

"So I can touch this," Kuroo replies, shimmying down Kei’s body and leaning forward again, making his lips drag lightly along the underside of Kei’s dick, "but not your glasses?"

"I can’t see without them," says Kei, somehow, even though his vocal chords feel stiff and unyielding. To make up for the weakness of his voice, he slides his hands into Kuroo’s hair, catching the stiff strands between his fingers. "Is your mouth only good for talking?"

"Wouldn’t you like to know?" Kuroo grins up at him, teasing, but then he’s mouthing at the head of Kei’s cock, taking the tip of it into his mouth. A whimper escapes Kei’s lips as one of Kuroo’s hands drops down to the base of him, holding him steady, as the other one pushing down on Kei’s hipbone. Kuroo’s wide mouth still looks like it’s smirking at him even with Kei’s dick in his mouth, and Kei hates it, and hates that moans keep tripping and tumbling out of his own mouth no matter how hard he presses his lips together. He can feel every single second of Kuroo’s laugh as he takes Kei deeper into his mouth; can feel the vibrations of his throat all the way down to his curling toes as he tries to rock his hips up for more, even though Kuroo is firmly holding him down and his legs are still trapped by his jeans. 

Kei’s orgasm takes him by surprise, and he thinks maybe he makes a sound, because Kuroo looks up at him victoriously and swallows around him as he comes, only letting Kei’s cock slip out of his mouth as the last spurt of come drizzles out, dragging across Kuroo’s cheek like smeared lip gloss. Kei gasps for breath, and tries to still his quaking muscles, watching Kuroo, debauched and satisfied as he looks down at Kei from above, stroke Kei’s hip. "Good?" Kuroo asks, hoarse, and then he’s dipping down to kiss Kei again. His mouth is bitter, and all Kei can taste now is himself.

Kuroo is still hard and hot against him through the thin material of his track bottoms, and Kei fumbles briefly with the elastic waist until he can dip his hand inside, curling around Kuroo’s erection near the head to collect precum and dragging down, fingers pressed along the vein on the underside. Kuroo groans low in throat, and bucks into Kei’s grip. Kei doesn’t tease him, stroking him fast as the throb of Kuroo’s cock against his palm leaves a tiny sizzle in the pit of his stomach, and it doesn’t take much time before Kuroo is coming, spilling onto Kei’s hand and gasping wet and desperate against Kei’s chin.

Then Kuroo is kissing Kei again, carefully this time, slowly, and Kei lets him. "Melted you, didn’t I?" Kuroo says, kissing right in front of Kei’s ear.

Kei snorts, pulling his hand free of Kuroo’s bottoms, and wipes his hand on his track suit. "In your dreams," Kei says.

Kuroo laughs at him, lifting up onto his elbows so he can stare down at Kei with something that looks disgustingly close to fondness. "How did you know?" Kuroo replies, and Kei’s traitorous stomach drops, in a way that hasn’t happened to him for years and years, leaving him winded as he stares up at Kuroo through smudged glasses. 

Something in Kuroo’s gaze makes him feel too naked, too exposed. He turns his head away. "We didn’t practice the script," he says.

"We improved our bond." Kuroo’s voice rasps, and Kei licks his own swollen lips at the reminder that he’d fucked Kuroo’s mouth.

"I’m not so sure our characters have this kind of… bond." He trips over the last word as Kuroo’s hand starts to wander again, drawing patterns along Kei’s ribs as he hums a song that’s definitely one of Karasuno’s later ones. 

"Well, I’m not so sure about _that_ ," says Kuroo. "How much of the script have you read?" 

Kei looks up at Kuroo again, taking in hair even more mussed from Kei’s fingers and kiss-pink lips. "Enough to film the first episode," Kei replies, and Kuroo’s hand moves to Kei’s belly again, splaying out across his abs as Kei takes steady, even breaths. "Is it out of your system, now?"

"Hmm?"

"Will you be able to look at something other than me while we film this drama?" 

Kuroo’s head tilts, like a cat trying to ascertain the source of a sound, and his fingers curl, the pads of his fingers digging in to the skin above Kuroo’s belly button. "Not sure," he says. "You are so nice to look at." He slides his hand up to the center of Kei’s chest. "Maybe if you take a shower with me."

And, well, Kei feels loose-limbed and easy and a little reckless, so he sighs, with long-suffering, and sucks his lower lip into his mouth. "Then I’m going home."

"Of course you are," Kuroo says, grabbing a handful of Kei’s bunched up sweatshirt and using it to lift him up. "After I show you my bedroom." 

Kei hears Tadashi’s voice in his head again. 

_It’s just that sometimes, when you’re upset, you do things you wouldn’t normally do._

For the second time tonight, he ignores it, and lets himself follow Kuroo deeper into the apartment, watching him shed his track suit jacket and reveal a broad, muscled back, deciding it’s all right, just this once, to worry about it later. After all, they’re both doing this to get it out of their systems. It’s not like it means anything at all.

*

"Where were you last night?" Tadashi asks him. "I dropped by your place to make sure you were going to eat but no one was home."

"Were you lonely?" Kei drawls in response, taking a towel to wipe sweat from his face. "Sorry to disappoint you. I was busy."

"With what?" Tadashi turns off the music, watching Kei begin his cooldown stretches. "You weren’t here practicing, were you?"

"Do I look like Kageyama to you?" Kei asks. "What’s with the twenty questions?"

"I was worried about you." Tadashi frowns at him. "You didn’t go to a bar or something, right?"

"As if." Kei runs a hand through his sweaty hair. The empty practice room had been cold when he arrived, but now he’s hot, so he strips off his sweatshirt, tossing it on top of his bag, along with his mobile and he headphones. Then he returns his gaze to Tadashi, who’s staring at him oddly. "What?"

"Your neck," Tadashi says, and reaches over to poke just under Kei’s ear.

Kei spins around to the mirrors on the far wall, walking over to them so he can examine the mark close up. It’s not too bad yet, just a faint red that probably won’t ever turn purple. "She got me good." Tadashi makes a strangled noise, and Kei makes sure his face is perfectly composed as he returns his gaze to him. "The hairstylist, Tadashi. I had an interview with Oikawa a couple of days ago, and she burned me with a curling iron trying to straighten frizzed hair."

"I watched that interview," says Tadashi. "Would have noticed something like that."

"Yes," Kei says, ignoring the guilty twist in his stomach, "because no one would ever cover a red mark on an idols neck with makeup."

Tadashi flushes, embarrassed, and scratches at his hair. "I just know you," he says. "You’re always… you’re always so calm when things go bad, but you make super rash decisions. Like when Aki—" He stops. "Anyway, sorry, it was just weird. You’re usually home at night unless you’re out with Nametsu or me for dinner, and you can’t go out with Nametsu anymore, so I wondered."

Kei rubs his sweaty palms on his sweatpants. Rash decisions, he thinks, like letting Kuroo Tetsurou suck him off on his living room sofa and then again in the shower, or maybe like Kei pushing Kuroo down into his soft, huge bed and returning the favor, sucking marks into Kuroo’s hips and trying to drag out a few more of those low groans. Maybe Tadashi means rash like waking up in Kuroo’s bed this morning with Kuroo’s arm around his waist, when he should have left the previous night. 

"I was at a script reading," Kei says. "For my new drama." He watches the tension leave Tadashi’s shoulders, and there’s the guilt again.

"Oh," Tadashi says. "I don’t know why you can never say things like that off the bat."

"I’d rather watch you squirm," Kei says, because it’s usually true, and he’s not repentant about that. 

Tadashi makes a sour face at him. "Lunch?" 

Kei looks down at himself. "Only if we order takeout here," he replies. "There’ve already been a million pictures of me out and about in these sweatpants this week."

"Sugawara warned you not to buy five pairs in the exact same color!" Tadashi covers his mouth when he laughs. "We should see if Yachi’s free, too. Meet up in the third floor lounge?"

"That’s fine," Kei says. "I’ll shower." He pauses, and then gives Tadashi a stern look. "You’re going to invite the King and his subject, aren’t you?"

Smirking, Tadashi shrugs. "I would if they were around today. That might cheer you up, if you had someone to make fun of for a bit."

"I don’t need to be cheered up," Kei says. "I’m fine. I have not cried on a single curbside this week." 

"You wouldn’t even if you wanted to." He studies Kei carefully, though, and then offers a lopsided smile. "You do look less… I don’t know, empty, today."

"Thanks," is Kei’s dry response, and Tasashi just laughs at him again. 

Kei wonders, sometimes, how someone so bad at making friends managed to hold on to someone like Tadashi for all these years, when all he’d ever done is stick up for him a few times when they were just starting out at the agency. All the good will accrued should have run out by now, but Tadashi is somehow still here, and Kei’s not sure what he’s done to deserve that.

"Is Katsu okay?" Tadashi asks. "For lunch?"

"Sure," Kei replies, picking up his bag. "I’ll see you in thirty." Tadashi nods and leaves. 

Kei, alone again, returns to the mirror to look at his neck. Tracing the outline of the red mark, Kei’s thoughts drift back to the feeling of Kuroo’s lips and teeth there, making it, and the low simmer in his belly at the recollection has him cursing under his breath. 

Digging through the pocket of his bag, he pulls out his phone. _You marked me,_ he texts to Kuroo, who’d put his name into Kei’s phone this morning in capital Roman letters, K U R O O, then laughed as Kei complained about how it would float to the top of his contacts list like that. 

He waits, briefly, for Kuroo to text back, but then he feels stupid, waiting like that, and so he shoves the phone into his pocket, grabs his bag and sweatshirt, and heads toward the practice room showers. 

In the shower, now that he’s looking for them, he finds two more marks: One is a dark red, nestled into the spot where his shoulder meets his neck, and another in the dip of his collarbones. He scrubs them harder than necessary with his washcloth, irritating his pale skin, and knows if he were in Karasuno still, those marks would be visible to everyone, a siren telling everyone just what Kei had gotten up to last night.

He’s managed to avoid it, in the past, by telling his one night stands in no uncertain terms not to mar his skin. He’d meant to do the same with Kuroo, only he’s never been reckless enough to hook up with another idol, and for some reason he’d thought Kuroo would already know better, about leaving marks on a body that’s far too often seen. 

He rinses shampoo out of his hair, looking down to keep soap from getting in his eyes, and catches sight of another red mark, blurry without his glasses, right next to his navel. This one is purpling around the edges, stark and harsh, and Kei runs his finger around the circumference of it, feeling his cock stir as he remembers Kuroo sucking that exact spot in _his_ shower, all laughs and teeth and concentration. 

Kei swallows, and allows his hand drift lower to curl around his semi-hard cock. He closes his eyes as he jerks himself fully hard, thinking of Kuroo’s swollen lips and the way he’d swallowed Kei all the way down, voice scratchy from letting Kei fuck his mouth, staring up at him with those piercing eyes. 

Kei uses his other hand to brace himself against the tile, sliding his thumb up and down the slit, shivering at how hard he’s gotten from just a memory and his own hand. Maybe, he thinks, that’s what happens when you go so long pretending you don’t want to be touched. He can hear his blood pounding in his ears, as loud, _louder_ , than the shower, and he strokes himself more purposefully. _Melted you, didn’t I?_ Kei hears, in Kuroo’s voice, and he shudders his way into an orgasm, his knees buckling as he spills down the shower drain.

Out of his system, he thinks, as he soaps up his washcloth again. Right. 

Freshly showered and wearing another hoodie that covers him up to his chin, Kei arrives at the lounge and finds only Yachi there waiting for him. She has her drawing pad out, and she’s doodling sketches that might appear at some point in her monthly fashion advice column for Bis magazine, and when he clears his throat she looks up at him with a smile. "Tsukishima!"

"Hey," he says, slumping into the seat across from her and looking up at the television over his shoulder. His stomach sinks when he realizes that the figure on the screen, dancing and singing, is Nametsu, her hair in two curly pigtails and her smile plastered on as dutifully as any idol that isn’t Kei or Kageyama. "Turn that off."

He hasn’t thought about Nametsu and her text since yesterday.

"Turn what—" She looks up at the screen in surprise, and then says _oh_ in her quietest voice before she drops her pencil and scrambles for the remote, turning the channel to local agricultural news instead of entertainment. "Sorry about that. I didn’t even think…"

"Where’s Yamaguchi?" Kei says, not wanting her to continue to apologize for something that’s definitely not her fault, and not quite sure if he’ll manage to say that if he doesn’t stop her now. "It’s been a half an hour."

"There was a line at the takeout place," Yachi replies, slowly picking up her pencil again to resume her sketching. "He’ll be here in ten." She chews on her lower lip for a few moments, not looking up at Kei. "Tell me what happened?"

"Haven’t you seen?" Kei sighs, tugging on one of the strings of his hood. "Not like it hasn’t been played every day on the news."

"I mean, I know you got into a fight with Nametsu, maybe." Yachi drags the pencil in a long arc. Kei wonders what exactly she’s drawing. "And that she cried. But I don’t know why you fought, or why she cried."

Kei lolls his head back and looks up at the ceiling. The paint is uneven and splotchy, some spakling pattern that was popular in the '80s that Old Man Ukai never changed. "She wanted a boyfriend that liked her."

Yachi’s pencil stills. "You liked her, Tsukishima." There’s no question in Yachi’s voice, and it makes him drop his chin to look at her again. She always tends to think the best of him. Of all the Karasuno boys, really, because she’d grown up along side them, the last chosen for Ukai Agency’s only female idol group but definitely not the least. 

"Yeah," Kei says. "Not enough, though." He drums his fingers restlessly on his thighs.

"You didn’t know she was going to cry, did you?" Now Yachi looks up to meet his eye. Her newly shorter hair, just barely to her shoulders, swings into her face as she studies him.

"What’s the point in crying, anyway?" Kei shrugs. "It doesn’t improve anything."

Yachi wrinkles her nose. "It can make you feel better."

"Or make everyone around you feel worse." 

Yachi’s eyelashes flutter in surprise, maybe not have expected Kei’s response. "Have you talked to her since all of this?"

Kei considers lying, and just saying 'no', but this is Yachi. Next to Tadashi, she knows him best, and she’s less smug about it. "She texted me," he admits. "To apologize for the media stuff."

"What did you reply?"

Kei presses his lips into a thin line. "I didn’t." At Yachi’s widening eyes, Kei shrugs. "What am I supposed to say? I don’t even know what she wants as a reply to something like that. It’s not like this isn’t going to follow me for years."

Yachi’s lips twitch, and she hesitates for a moment before saying: "After two years, I think Nametsu knows you’re not the best with expressing emotions, Tsukishima." She taps her pink manicured nails on the table, a nervous habit that had developed in lieu of her stuttering earnestness. "Just be honest."

"It’s a lot easier to be honest when you’re nice."

"Possibly," Yachi agrees, but before she can continue Tadashi is pushing open the lounge doors with two white plastic bags of takeout that makes Kei’s empty stomach rumble.

"Sorry I’m late," he says, and then he looks between them. "Am I interrupting something?"

"Of course not," Kei says, standing up to take the bags from Tadashi’s hands so he can take off his coat. "What would you be interrupting?"

They talk about Yachi’s upcoming concert tour over lunch, Kei weighing in very rarely as Tadashi and Yachi seem to weave the conversation around him, giving him space to participate without ever requiring it. It’s comforting, for all that Kei is mostly thinking about the text message from Nametsu, when hooking up with Kuroo had pleasantly pushed it from his mind for a while. 

His phone chimes as they’re cleaning up, and there, in the thread just above the dangling text from Nametsu, is a new message from Kuroo.

 _i bet that looks nice :)_ the message says.

"Who’s it from?" Kei looks up to see both Tadashi and Yachi staring at him."

"What?"

"You’re looking strangely at your phone," Tadashi says. "Like you want to flush it down the toilet. Which, by the way, would be a terrible idea when you just got a new one."

"It’s Nishinoya," Kei lies. "Reminding me he’s number one on my speed dial."

"Nishinoya is number one on your speed dial?" Tadashi replies, blankly, and Kei sighs as Yachi laughs sweetly, patting Tadashi consolingly on the shoulder.

*

Kei puts off visiting his parents as much as he can. It’s not that he doesn’t care about them. He does, a lot. They’re supportive and kind and even when he’d fought them tooth and nail about signing up with Ukai Agency, once all was said and done they’d done everything possible to help him succeed at it. Kei’s mother had taught him how to play guitar and his father had taught him how to be polite without ever giving in, and he carries those valuable lessons along with a million more every day as he moves from music recording studios to press conferences to interviews. 

It’s just that Kei also knows he’s different from the rest of his family. They’re touchy and smiley and open, asking him about how he _feels_ or if he’s _enjoying_ his new project, or how his friends are doing. They tell him stories about their co-workers, or about a neighbor he knows vaguely having a new granddaughter, or a restaurant they adored that he should _"definitely come with us to try next time, they have a great dessert menu!"_ and it’s impossible, after all this time, that they don’t know he can’t participate in any of that. Often it feels like they’re speaking another language at the dinner table, and Kei is just watching and catching a word or two, not getting the meaning or the context from those brief snatches of clarity, and not even sure if he wants to.

But it’s a week before Christmas, and Kei’s going to be performing at a Christmas show in Osaka, and appearing on Countdown at New Years’, so Kei gets in his car and goes to his parent’s house, because he won’t have time to do it over the winter holidays and he owes them this. 

All the lights are on, and his father and his brother’s cars are in the driveway. 

"Kei, you’re home!" His mother says, when she answers the door. She turns and calls out into the living room. "Kei finally made it! Time for dinner!"

"Sorry I’m late," Kei says, unwinding his scarf from around his neck and peeling off his gloves. "With the sudden snow, I had to drive more slowly."

"Good," his mother says. "You always drive too fast." She pats his cheek. "Better safe than sorry, anyway."

Kei is about to reply that his reflexes are above average, and that he’d never drive a car faster than he can handle it, but his brother peeks his head around the corner, giving him a lopsided grin. "Hey, Kei!" 

"Aki," Kei replies. His mother is still clucking over him, dusting snow off of his jacket. Kei lets her. 

"You doing all right? Saw you on the news." He laughs, awkwardly, as Kei just stares at him. "It was hard to miss it, since you’re so popular."

"Oh, yes, we saw all that horrible business on the news," his mother agrees, stepping back and finally letting Kei slip his coat off and leave his boots in the foyer. He slides into his slippers, the same dark green ones he’s used since high school, and steps into his childhood home. "Those vultures don’t even know what happened!"

"Neither do we," Aki says, and Kei takes off his glasses to clean the lenses. "Since Kei never calls."

"I barely hold up conversations in person, and you want me to _call_?" Kei raises both eyebrows, and his mother laughs. 

"You could have let us know it would be on the news, at least. They kept flashing your name during the local reports and Aki thought maybe you’d gotten into a fistfight or something!"

"How plebeian." Kei puts his glasses back on, bringing everything back into focus. "I’m in a boyband, and you think I’m getting into fistfights?"

"Tanaka did, remember?" Aki is crossing the hall now, moving from the living room to the dining room, and Kei’s mother goes past him, into the kitchen. Kei follows, nodding to his father, who is carefully watching shrimp boil, a silver sieve in hand to fish them out of the broth when they’re cooked. "Popped that other guy right in the face!"

"He was drunk and he tripped on an ice-cube, accidentally hitting Futakuchi in the face," Kei replies. "We’re pacifists, in Karasuno." He considers. "Though if the opportunity were to arise for me to trip on an ice-cube and accidentally hit Kageyama…"

"You haven’t disliked Kageyama since you were seventeen." Aki laughs. "And honestly, I thought that whole story was a PR spin."

"No," Kei says, sliding down to sit in his customary seat. "He really is that stupid."

"Kei!" His mother pats his father’s waist as she skirts around him to get something from the refrigerator. "Be nice."

"This is me being nice," he replies, and his father looks up to smile at him. 

"Good to see you again," his father says. "You’ve been keeping busy. New drama in February?"

"Yes," Kei says. "With Kuroo Tetsurou. I don’t know who they’ll cast for the female lead, but Shimizu would be a good fit for the part."

"It’s an murder drama, right?"

"Sort of," Kei says. "It’s more of a friendship drama, and the murder mystery is just there to pretend to be the plot."

Aki snorts, sitting down across from Kei with a handful of chopsticks and napkins. "I remember reading for dramas and wondering if any of them were ever really about the plot." He winks at Kei, grinning slightly, and Kei hates how Aki does that; pretends he knows what it’s all like, doing Kei’s job, just because he’d had the smallest taste of it.

"Right," Kei says, cooly, as his mother sets two pitchers of juice on the table between them. "All those dramas you’ve tried out for recently."

Aki’s smile slips, and then Kei can see the crows feet just starting at the corners of his eyes. His brother is older, now, Kei thinks. Kei will probably age the same way, but without the smile lines around his mouth.

After dinner, there’s a layer of snow so thick on the road that Kei’s mom refuses to let him drive through it. "It’s not like you don’t have a room here," she says.

"I have work in the morning." He has a prep meeting for the first press junkets for the yet-unnamed drama, and a photoshoot for an canned coffee commercial, and lunch with Takeda to figure out his schedule for the next week. "It’s a three hour drive back to my apartment."

"Exactly," Aki says. "What if you get stuck in it?"

"Then it’ll be my own fault and I’ll deal with the consequences like an adult," Kei replies, annoyed. Aki, frowning like that, looks an awful lot like Sugawara, and Kei is so weak to Sugawara, even if he’ll never tell anyone that.

"It’ll be the three of us that have to worry about you, though," Aki says, and Kei sighs, surrendering not so gracefully and letting his mother pry his coat from his hands as his dad starts making a pot of coffee for four in the kitchen. 

His childhood bedroom is small, compared to the one in Kei’s expensive apartment in central Tokyo. He has a twin-sized bed, with a soft black comforter, and the peeling poster timeline of the Jurassic period still stripes along the wall behind his dresser. 

He lies on top of the covers, with his fingers folded over his stomach, his headphones blasting an album he’d picked up last week by a new American rock band, and watches the snow continue to fall outside. He’d spent plenty of winter nights like this, he thinks, back when he’d been younger. Now everything just feels cramped, claustrophobic. 

Remembering his should text Takeda to let him know he might end up trapped out here, he grabs his phone off of the nightstand where he’d set it to charge. He’d brought his charger with him, at least, even if he doesn’t have a change of clothes. 

Three new messages, all from K U R O O, all Roman letters, capital. Kei hesitates, then opens them. 

_you never replied to my text yesterday, tsukishima_ , the first one says, followed up by the second: _take a picture of the mark_

The third one is timestamped only twenty minutes ago. _where are you right now?_

Kei licks his lips, then bites down lightly on his tongue, thinking. _I’m out of town._

_that only answers one of my texts._

_It’s the only one that was a question._ Kei runs his thumb across the smooth screen of his new phone. _I don’t like texting, and I don’t take pictures of myself._

Kuroo doesn’t answer for a few minutes, and Kei uses the time to send Takeda a heads-up e-mail, explaining where he is and why he might be late. He’s about to plug his phone back up when it starts to vibrate and ring in his hands.

He pushes his headphones down on his neck and answers.

"You said you don’t like texting," Kuroo says, "so I’m calling instead."

Kei closes his eyes, gathering a fistfull of his comforter at the sound of Kuroo’s low voice. "I like that even less than texting." 

"You answered, though." A laugh that slithers right down Kuroo’s spine, coiling at the base of it. "You’re going to make me think you like me, four-eyes."

"Don’t get ahead of yourself." Kei opens his eyes again, to look at his bland ceiling. "Did you need something?"

"Well, I was going to invite you over," Kuroo replies, "but you’re away?"

Running his tongue along his teeth, Kei debates how much he should say. "I’m at my parents’ house."

"Hmm," Kuroo says. "You don’t sound very happy."

"Do I ever?"

That earns him a louder laugh, more silly, and that should ease the tension spooling in his gut but it doesn’t. Instead it calls to mind the curve of Kuroo’s lower lip, the sharpness of his canines when he’s pleased enough to show them. "I dunno," Kuroo says. "When I blew you, you sounded pretty happy."

Kei’s breath hitches. "I’m at my _parents’ house,_ " he says, sharply.

"You’re alone, though, right? Maybe in the guest room?"

"My childhood bedroom," Kei says. "Freak."

Kuroo’s breath whistles through his teeth. "Is it still decorated like when you were a kid? What were you into?" Kuroo makes a clicking sound. "Dolls? Firefighters?"

"I’m going to hang up on you."

"That’s too bad," Kuroo says. "I was going to tell you all about what I would have done if you’d come over tonight."

"I wouldn’t have." Kei clears his throat. He’d been cold, before, but now he’s hot, sweating, and the left ear of his headphones is sticking to his cheek. "We didn’t get anything done last time."

"I think you got done, Ice Prince." Kei wills his blush to fade, even though Kuroo can’t see it, and tries to slow the beating of his heart. "That counts as something, for sure."

"Why do you talk so much if you have nothing to say?"

"Oh, I have _plenty_ to say," Kuroo chuckles. "Besides, I think you like my voice."

"Idol life breeds narcissism." Kei tugs at the neck of his shirt, bumping his headphones, giving up on ending this call with Kuroo anytime soon. "You’re awfully full of yourself."

"Would you like to be full of me too?"

Kei’s mouth is inescapably dry, and it’s so _hot_. He tilts his head back to look out the window again, and it’s snowing still, but Kei feels like his room is at the heart of a volcano, and the draft that’s always trickled its way in through the single-paned windows seems like nothing but a memory as the caress of Kuroo’s tone settles on his skin. "Does that line work for you often?"

"Never used it before," Kuroo answers. "I save my best lines."

"If that’s your best, I’d hate to hear your worst."

"What would you like to hear then?" A short puff of air into the speaker. "A lullaby?"

"I really will hang up on you."

"You’re all talk and no action." He pauses. "Put me on speaker."

"No," Kei replies. "My walls are thin." Aki, sleeping just next door, used to keep him up at all hours with his weird horror films, and Kei is not about to let Aki hear anything Kuroo has to say to him. He shift, nudging his headphones again, and he blinks. "I have my Sonys."

"Plug them in, then," Kuroo says. It’s a command, but it sounds more like a suggestion the way Kuroo pitches his voice, and Kei slides his fingers down the cord and pulls the plug out of his mp3 player and into his phone, cutting of the faint music. "Good?"

Kuroo’s voice is much more intimate, through his headphones. "You’re louder."

"You also have both hands free."

"Do I need them for something?"

A thoughtful noise. "Well, since you’re not here on my living room sofa, I need you to be my hands for me, Tsukishima." Kei’s breath stutters, and he knows Kuroo catches because he chuckles. "You don’t mind doing me that favor, do you?"

Kei rubs at his face, jostling his glasses. "We shouldn’t do this."

"Do you want to?" Kuroo’s voices eases back into something less liquid, less hot. "You _can_ hang up. I won’t hold it against you."

And maybe how easily Kuroo puts the power back into Kei’s hands is what makes Kei want to let him have it. "So tell me, then."

"Tell you what?"

"What you would have done. If I’d have come over tonight." 

Kuroo quick inhale is so _loud_ in Kei’s headphones, and when he speaks, his voice has slipped back into the mesmerizing lull that he’s known for as Nekoma’s main vocalist. "First I’d push up your shirt so I could look at the marks I left."

Kei slides his hand down his chest, over his stomach, coming to a rest at the bottom of his shirt. He hooks his fingers in the material and drags it up, his blunt nails skimming the skin as he brings it high enough to bare his chest. "They’re fading," Kei says. 

"I’d make new ones, just so every time you changed clothes you’d remember where my mouth has been," Kuroo replies, and Kei hadn’t realized he was even getting hard, but he’s pressing up against the seam of his jeans, and he skims one hand down to cup himself.

Kei could tell Kuroo he doesn’t need the marks for that, but instead he rubs himself through his jeans, waiting. 

"You’re touching yourself, aren’t you?" Kuroo sounds a little less composed, and Kei’s heart skips a beat in his chest. "What kind of bottoms are you wearing?"

"Jeans," Kei says.

"The dark blue ones you wore over last time?" Kuroo asks. "Those made your legs look so long. Everything about you is long. I wanted you so much, but I wasn’t even sure if you were into guys until I saw you watch my mouth."

"That could have meant I was tired of you talking," Kei says, carefully not to give away how hard it is for him to catch his breath.

"You aren’t," Kuroo says. "You don’t do much that you don’t want to do. I like that about you. It means you want me to tell you to slip your jeans and underwear down. It means you’re letting me tell you to do it."

Kei almost laughs, that it’s the same thing getting them both off, but instead he undoes the button of his jeans and pushes them and his briefs down. Just like two nights ago, Kei’s thighs are trapped by the material, elastic waist of his boxers cutting into skin. 

"You look good like that," Kuroo continues. "I know you do because I’ve seen it. This morning I jerked off thinking about how good you looked on my sofa, in my bed." He expels a long gust of air. "Touch yourself, Tsukishima. Not too fast. Remember how my mouth felt on you? I’ll do that again. As many times as you want."

"You’re ridiculous," Kei says, but he’s stroking himself now, his dry hand not even uncomfortable with how loose his grip is. It feels too good already, and Kei lets his cock fall from his fingers so that he can cradle his balls. "Just—"

"I have so many other things I want to do to you, though, if you let me." Kei’s hand returns to his dick, rough second knuckles dragging up the underside of his dick, catching tiny spurts of precome between his fingers. He uses his free hand to play with his sack. "Faster, Tsukishima. Stroke yourself faster, now that you’re all warmed up."

"Demanding," Kei says, but he does as Kuroo says, speeding up his jerking until he starts to feel the friction, precome not enough to ease the pull. He brings his hand up to his mouth and spits, and now it’s just barely wet enough, more precome dribbling out as Kei’s hips start to roll up for more from his own hand.

"Would you let me finger you?" Kuroo asks, and Kei realizes Kuroo’s been speaking this whole time, making a list maybe, or just talking to talk. "I’m good at it. I could make you come with just my fingers. Or I could make you _almost_ come, over and over and over again, until you begged me to fuck you—"

"I don’t _beg_ for _anything_ ," Kei replies, letting go of his balls and throwing an arm across his face to cover it and muffle his noises. "Not ever."

"I know," Kuroo says. "That’s what would make it so hot." His voice cracks. "Stubborn Tsukishima, legs spread for me, with four of my fingers inside you, fucking you open, pushing up into your prostate just enough to tease, enough to feel good, but not enough to let you get off. You’d have to ask for it—"

"Shut up!" Kei whisper shouts. Then he’s going faster, twisting his wrist as he strokes up, Kuroo panting into his ear, sounding like he’s next to Kei, on top of Kei, and not just on the phone. Kei can feel Kuroo’s large palms sliding down his ribs, can feel Kuroo’s mouth on his neck. 

Kei bites into his arm as a groan bubbles up, not wanting to bring any attention to himself from any of the other rooms on the hall, and he closes his eyes at the pinpricks of tears at the corners of his eyes.

"God, Tsukishima, you even sound pretty," Kuroo murmurs, sounding as wrecked as Kei feels, and Kei whines high in the back of his throat, precum spurting and making the glide of his hand easier as he jerks himself closer and closer to the edge. "Can you come for me? I’m gonna come and you should come with me."

"Don’t want to do anything _with_ you—"

"Come, Tsukishima," Kuroo repeats, this time in a low, authoritative groan, and it’s enough, Kei’s orgasm wrenched from him at Kuroo’s command, the world going sideways for an uncountable number of seconds as his thighs tremble, hips thrusting up into his hand as the last of his climax sputters from him, leaving him sweaty and limp, one leg hanging off the bed as he gasps for breath.

"I…" Kei starts to say, pulling his arm away from his mouth, and he’s not sure how he wants to finish that sentence. _I hate you_ wouldn’t be true, and _I can’t feel my face_ would be far too honest.

"You?" Kuroo is breathless, amused, and Kei’s arm burns. Looking down at it, he can see the teeth marks he’s left in the skin to muffle his moans.

Kei exhales, limbs going slack. "Shut up," he says, with not nearly enough heat. 

"Mmm, goodnight then, Tsukishima," Kuroo purrs, and ends the call, and as Kei lies there in the middle of the bed, half dressed with come cooling on his belly, stickily dotting right along the last remnants of the hickey Kuroo left behind, he can’t help but wonder if he’s already in water way over his head, and if it’s too late to swim back to shore.

He wakes up in the morning with saliva dried to the corners of his mouth and cum splattered like a Pollack painting along his lower abs, feeling like he’d run a marathon. 

After a quick shower, he heads out into the main part of the house, looking out the living room window to check out the snow. The street is blanketed in white, the early dawn sun making it look pink in the light, and it’s too deep for Kei to drive in before a salt plow comes through.

"You’re up early," comes Aki’s voice behind him, and Kei spins around, forcing his face into a neutral expression as Aki smiles at him. "Couldn’t sleep?"

"I slept fine," Kei replies. "I’m used to sleeping fewer hours. I’m an idol, remember?"

"How could I forget?" Aki comes to stand next to him at the window. "Did you love her?"

"Who?" Kei asks, before his brain catches up. "Nametsu Mai?" Aki nods, and Kei rubs at his face. "I care about her."

"But you didn’t love her." Aki moves the curtains aside to take his own look at the snow. "Then why did you date her?"

"Because we looked good together," Kei replies. "We sold product well together. We made nice headlines together. That’s all."

"Cold."

"I am the Ice Prince." He shivers, hearing the nickname in Kuroo’s voice. "I’ll date whomever I need to. Real attachments just get in the way of business."

"What happened to the cute, bratty kid who wanted me to teach him my choreography?" Aki bumps Kei with his shoulder, and Kei glares at him. "He just loved to dance and listen to music."

"He wouldn’t have made it as an idol." Kei runs a hand through his messy hair. "I can’t be thoughtless like that anymore."

"You were sweet. Looked up to me."

"That’s why you lied to me all the time, right?" Kei heaves a sigh. "It doesn’t matter. Sweet’s not my image, so I couldn’t be that even if I wanted to be."

"You are who you choose to be," Aki says, and Kei’s glare is harsher, this time, when he catches Aki’s gaze.

"Obviously that’s not true, otherwise you’d still be an idol right now."

Aki flinches. "That’s not fair, Kei."

"The entertainment world isn’t fair." He watches the plow come down the road. "You should know that better than most."

He’s in a bad mood driving home. He calls Tadashi when he’s almost back to central Tokyo, and Tadashi answers sounding bewildered. " _You’re_ calling _me_?"

"So?" Kei asks. The muscle in his jaw is twitching, and he wants to fight or dance or write music but instead he’s got a meeting to go to. He’s been tense the whole drive down the highway, and he knows he can’t go into a meeting like this. "Can you spare ten minutes in about a half-hour?"

"Yep," Tadashi says, still confused. "Why?"

"Can you…" Kei sighs, switching lanes to go around a car driving too slow. "Are you at the Agency? Can you meet me on the roof in about a half an hour?"

"Ah," Tadashi says. "Sure can. Hot coffee?"

"I’ll bring it," Kei says, pressing his bluetooth button and ending the call.

Tadashi’s waiting for him all bundled up when he gets there, and Kei presses his friend’s favorite coffee into his hands and leans up against the railing. 

"Tell me about the rookies you’re working with," says Kei. "Just talk, and don’t ask me any questions."

"Okay, Tsukki," Tadashi replies, leaning on the railing next to him, and starting to speak. Kei relaxes into it, this old ritual of theirs that dates back to when they were still two kids who’d yet to be assigned a unit group, practicing day in and day out and unsure which trainee cuts they would make. Listening to Tadashi speak always takes the tension out of Kei’s spine, and today is no different. 

Kei’s phone interrupts Tadashi mid-sentence, as he’s recounting a run-in his rookies all had with Azumane, who always terrifies the kids despite being the gentlest guy of anyone in Karasuno. "That’s Takeda," Kei says. "Calling about my meeting."

"Mmhmm," Tadashi says easily, taking a long sip of his coffee and smiling up at Kei. "Feel better?"

"All my terrible thoughts have definitely been replaced by your inane ones," Kei says, and Tadashi just shakes his head, leading the way to the emergency exit door that will return them into the confines of the Ukai Agency building they practically grew up in. 

 

*

Their drama finally gets a name on December 17th, the day of the special introductory press junket. 

"It's a stupid title," Kei says, looking at the advertisement spots Takeda is spreading out across Ukai's desk as Kei sits in one of the soft leather chairs and adjusts his tie, hooking his finger just behind the knot and tugging to give himself breathing room. " _Rich man, poor man_? It doesn't even reflect the content."

"It's catchy," replies Takeda. "Besides, in some ways it really does suit the contrast between your character and Kuroo's, and it's not the worst drama title on your resume."

That, Kei knows, is a spot reserved for his second project, a total flop where he'd had to work with Terushima Yuuji, and their companies had attempted to market them as ShimaX2 for the OST. Kei rolls his eyes. "Still."

"Well, as of now, you officially _love_ the title," Ukai says, with finality, before he leans across the table. "And this time, no romantic entanglements with your co-stars."

Kei's heart beats painfully, pressing against his ribs as he focuses his attention more completely on Ukai. "What do you mean by that?" His voice sounds strange, but Ukai either doesn't notice or doesn't read into it.

"The female lead yours and Kuroo's characters are fighting over," says Takeda. "Haiba Arisa."

"One of the industry’s top female idols," Ukai adds. "Seems to be your type, but you're in enough trouble for now on that front, I think."

Kei glowers, even as his heartbeat slows back to normal. "I'm not. I don't date indiscriminately. You act like I'm Oikawa Tooru or something."

"Fair enough," Ukai says. "But you'll also need to be careful to avoid even a rumor of involvement. It'd be bad for your image." 

Not as bad, Kei thinks, as a rumor of his _involvement_ with Kuroo, but he just nods, blinking in hopes of generating moisture for his contacts. "I thought PR liked to drum up that kind of press."

"Not for you, not right now." Ukai narrows his eyes. "Let Kuroo be the topic of any of that kind of speculation."

"Fine by me," Kei says, and then he's being ushered to the car to head to the junket venue, face caked in makeup and hair freshly bleached, feeling a little like a rookie as he anticipates what kinds of questions he'll face today. 

The press at large is bound to ask about Nametsu, and probably not slyly, like Oikawa had. No, Kei's sure they'll be aggressive in their pursuit of a soundbyte, and it's all Kei will be able to manage to avoid saying anything that will get him in trouble. Mostly things like _fuck off_ , which he'd hissed at a cluster of papparazi once when Karasuno had been stalked into the airport. He'd gotten into heaps of trouble for that even though their fans had been mostly on his side, and Nametsu is a much more sensitive issue then badly behaving photographers.

He bites his lip in thought, then takes out his phone. He pulls up the message from Nametsu, still unanswered, and his stomach drops as he starts to type. _Press junket today. Will do my best not to mention you._ He can't reply to her apology, because he still hasn't figured out how to without lying, but he can at least give her a heads up about this.

After the message sends, he switches his phone to silent and tucks it away, not wanting to know if she replies. 

Kuroo, when Kei first catches sight of him, is leaning against the hall wall, one hand on his cocked hip and his other holding his phone, and it's all Kei can do not to flush red enough that it's visible through his foundation. Kuroo is wearing a dark black silk shirt with a mesh panel down the front in lieu of a sensible button down-- no tie, and nothing to cover the peeks of tanned chest that have Kei's eyes lingering too long lower than Kuroo's face. When Kei does meet his gaze, he sees that Kuroo's eyes have been lined heavily in black, and there's a slight shine to his mouth from a thin, clear gloss. 

"Hey, Bokuto, sorry to interrupt, but I have to go," Kuroo says. Kei rolls his shoulders back and looks away at the sound of Kuroo's voice. "Time for work."

The person on the other end whines noisily enough that Kei can hear it, and Kuroo laughs at him as he ends the call.

Takeda lightly touches Kei's forearm, and shit, Kei had forgotten he was there. Kuroo is too distracting, really, and Kei can feel the raw wave of anxiousness about it that he pushes aside in favor of looking in askance at his manager. 

"I'm going to go deal with some organizational obligations," says Takeda. "Are you going to wait here with Kuroo?"

"I won't let him wander off," Kuroo says, giving Kei a once over as he slides his phone into his pocket. "I promise, Takeda."

Takeda gives him a cheerful grin, completely missing the lascivious way Kuroo's tongue curls around 'wander', and leaves them mostly alone in the hallway.

"Been a while," Kuroo says, revealing a glimpse of white teeth as gives Kei a quick grin. "You keeping busy?"

"Obviously," Kei says. He lifts a hand to adjust his glasses before remembering he's not wearing them. "We've got an appointment for recording next week. I'll be going to Nekomata for it."

"I know, two days before Christmas," Kuroo replies. "I miss your glasses, by the way, four-eyes."

"Because you can't call me four-eyes without them?"

"No," Kuroo says. "I just like the way they fog up when I'm sucking your--"

"Kuroo!" A cheerful, lilting voice calls out, and Kuroo's expression morphs completely as he turns in the direction it came from.

"Haiba!" Kuroo's face softens, and Kei watches in fascination as he extends an arm out so that the newcomer can tuck herself under it. She looks up at Kei with wide, curious, mismatched eyes, and Kei returns her look. 

"You must be Tsukishima," she says, bowing slightly, and Kei bows back. 

"Haiba Arisa," he replies. "You're under the same agency as Kuroo, right?"

"Yep!" She makes a peace sign at him. "And my brother is Lev, who's in Nekoma, of course."

"Of course," Kei echoes. Haiba Arisa is gorgeous, he notes distantly, in the same way he'd decide whether a painting was beautiful. She's unusual looking, for a Japanese idol, even a haafu one, with her long naturally light hair and her eyes, one blue, one brown. She looks like Lev, from what Kei can remember of Nekoma's group advertisements, only smaller, softer. Her smile is genuine, at least, and Kei can respect that even if she ends up being obnoxiously perky like Hinata. 

"I'm looking forward to working with you," she says, scissoring her peace sign. "Let's make a great drama where you both fight over me." She clasps her hands together. "How romantic!"

Kuroo chuckles, patting her shoulder. "No way," he says. "Love triangles aren't romantic. They're sad. Especially when they're all friends."

Haiba scrunches up her nose, her false lashes fluttering cutely as she sparkles up at Kuroo. "Then they should all three date!"

Kei surprises himself by laughing, and when Kuroo and Haiba turn to look at him he narrows his eyes and turns away slightly, watching them out of the corner of his eye.

"I don't think I've ever heard you laugh before," Kuroo muses, searching Kei's face.

Haiba hums. "Do you two know each other well?" 

"No," Kei replies bluntly, and Kuroo reaches out and pokes Kei's cheek.

"We're getting there," Kuroo teases, as Kei gapes at him in outrage. "Tsukishima is quite stubborn."

"Be friends with me, too, Tsukishima!" She grins at him broadly, and he doesn't scowl back at her, which seems to be good enough to earn him a thumbs up from her.

The drama’s producer comes to find them then, and then it's mic checks and lighting adjustment, the three of them behind a high table, Haiba on the far left, Kuroo in the center and Kei to his right. There are about fifty people in the audience, all with cameras or notepads, and Kei remembers that the budget for this drama is huge, despite having an all-idol cast, so there's bound to be a lot of buzz. 

The press-conference starts boring, with questions that are easy to field, and Haiba is good at answering them, stealing the focus of the reporters with her playful responses and cheerful attitude. Kuroo fills in the gaps, discussing finer points about themes and making it so Kei can add succinct bits of information without overextending himself. Kei is thankful, if a little confused about why he even needs to be here when there are clearly two press-experts, and about to tune completely out of the whole thing when he feels a hand on his knee. 

He starts, and Kuroo, who has his mouth turned away from the mic, chuckles so quietly even Kei barely hears it. The hand on his knee spreads out, hot through his dress slacks, and Kei swallows as fingers skim the inside of his knee. 

Setting his jaw, Kei leans forward, shifting his leg to dislodge the hand, but it only ends up moving the hand higher up his thigh. He cuts his gaze over to Kuroo, but Kuroo is earnestly listening to a reporter's question, as if is fingers aren't slowly creeping up the seam of Kei's slacks, toward his stirring cock, and Kei exhales shakily as he too tries to pay attention.

He should move Kuroo's hand away, he thinks. If he took Kuroo's hand and set it back in his own lap, Kuroo would respect his decision, Kei's sure. But a tiny part of him, the part of him that's going hot at the pit of his stomach, likes the tiny, almost invisible curl of Kuroo's thin cat-mouth, and the way his fingers feel electric on Kei's inner thigh. 

"And you, Tsukishima? There's a lot of interest in you right now on the cusp of your recent high-profile break-up from Nametsu Mai, and your last drama only had midling ratings. Do you feel like there's a lot of pressure on you do do well in this upcoming role, all things considered?" 

Kei licks his lips. "There'd be a lot of pressure regardless," he says. "I want to do my best in every role I'm given the opportunity to play, and I want to do a part as interesting as this justice." It's a boring, safe answer, and the reporter gives him an exasperated look.

"Besides," Kuroo says, his hand sliding up Kei's thigh completely, fingers curling in, pinky brushing Kei's balls, "this time Tsukki gets to work with me, which means he'll be giving it his all!" 

The reporters all titter and the sound of Kuroo casually dropping Kei's nickname, the one Tadashi had given him when they were kids, that had been _private_ until Tadashi has used it accidentally in front of fans at a concert. 

Kei turns to look at Kuroo, who grins at him unrepentantly, and Kei's normal stiffness in front of the press give way to his annoyance and arousal. "It's Tsukishima," he says, lowly, and Kuroo winks at him, obviously half for show and and half in a taunt as he brushes Kei's cock. "Haven't I told you that?"

"Are you pretending we aren't close?" Kuroo's eyes are bright, glimmering, and fuck, Kei's half-hard. "Tsukishima and I practice lines at my apartment." He says it candidly, like he's telling the reporters a secret.

"Why wasn't I invited?" Haiba jokes, and Kei's breath hitches as Kuroo cups him completely, his long fingers straightening him out so that the head is up toward his belly. 

"Tsukki and I wanted to be alone," says Kuroo, with another wink, and Kei flushes, his ears pink. The reporters laugh again, and Kei gapes at him, unsure whether it's because of his embarrassment or because of the way Kuroo's thumb strokes the sensitive spot just under the head of his cock. "See, look, he's blushing!"

Haiba says something about being jealous, and Kuroo, thoroughly smug, withdraws his hand, leaving Kei hard and tense and confused as the dramas producer wraps up the junket.

Kei has to adjust himself before they stand up to bow to the reporters, and he's conscious of the shift of his swollen erection as they pose for photos. Cheekily, Kuroo throws an arm over Kei's shoulders when they shift positions, and Kei is almost too distracted by the smell of Kuroo's cologne to notice the way the photographers all quiet briefly in surprise when Kei doesn't shrug him off. 

Kuroo excuses himself to the restroom after they've made their rounds, and Kei waits a couple of minutes before following him, pushing into the restroom to find Kuroo fixing his hair in the mirror. His gaze meets Kei's in the mirror. "There's only one stall," Kuroo says. "Shouldn't you have knocked?"

Kei reaches behind him and fumbles with the latch of the door, locking it. "Shouldn't you have locked the door behind you?"

"Well," Kuroo says, and the eyeliner makes his eyes look _so gold_ , and Kei hates that he's still so hard, and that all Kuroo has to do to keep him that way is look at him just so, "I was hoping you might follow me in here."

"What was all that? During the junket?"

"You're so pretty when you blush," Kuroo says. "And you looked a little tense." He wiggles his eyebrows. "Actually, you look a little tense now--"

Kei stalks across the small bathroom and crowds Kuroo into the sink, tangling one hand in the thready mess of Kuroo’s mesh shirt, not caring whether he tears it or not. "This was supposed to make it easier to work together," he grinds out, pushing at Kuroo until he's sitting on the edge of the sink, long legs in either side of Kei's hips, and pressing their lips together harshly, teeth banging against each other as they both greedily open their mouths for more.

"And instead," Kuroo says, words muffled by Kei’s mouth, hand tugging on Kei's tie, "it’s only made us both harder." He shifts until his cock is pressing up against Kei's, just as swollen, just as hot, and Kei groans, stealing Kuroo’s mouth again, sliding his tongue around Kuroo’s and sucking on it until Kuroo gives up a tiny whine in the back of his throat. The acrid taste of Kuroo’s lipgloss mixes with Kei’s own, but it pales in comparison to the wet heat of Kuroo’s mouth. 

"You said you could be," Kei pants into Kuroo's cheek, thrusting his hips forward, " _professional_."

"I was," Kuroo complains, one of his hands sliding up to tangle in the short hair at the nape of Kei's neck as his other drop to grab Kei's ass, pulling Kei in closer for more friction. "I was distracting--" Kei sucks Kuroo's upper lip into his mouth and grinds their erections together, and Kuroo moans, voice cracking. "Fuck, distracting the reporters."

"And you needed to touch me for that?" Kei's blood is rushing in his ears, and Kuroo's thighs, long and muscled, are gripping his hips as he mouths his way down Kuroo's neck, dragging his teeth against sensitive skin as Kuroo's hips begin to rock more frantically. "Needed to get me hard under the table?"

He can feel tension coiling tight in his belly as Kuroo lets go of his ass and fumbles in between them, reaching for the clasp of Kei's slacks and nibly undoing them when he finds it. "Wanted you to blush," Kuroo says. "Couldn't have sold it if you didn't blush."

It only takes three strokes of Kuroo's hands before Kei comes, spurting in long rivulets between Kuroo's fingers, come dripping down Kuroo's wrist.

"Sold what?" Kei watches Kuroo bring his hand up to his mouth, licking at a long sticky line of come down his forearm, legs spread out dark and long on the white of the sink counter, cock pushing out on the denim of his super tight black jeans. He's a dangerous temptation, looking like that, and Kei's already come but he feels like the fire Kuroo ignites in his gut never, ever truly flickers out. 

Kuroo cleans his fingers one by one as Kei tucks himself back into his underwear and does up his pants, waiting for Kuroo's answer. 

"A softer Tsukishima," Kuroo replies, and his voice is thick with desire. He reaches down with his clean hand to touch himself, but Kei steps forward and knocks his hand away, before unzipping Kuroo's impossibly tight pants and pulling out his cock. 

"There is no such thing," Kei says, and Kuroo looks like he's about to argue so Kei bends down and sucks Kuroo into his mouth, sliding his tongue easily around the crown and wrenching a gutteral noise from Kuroo's thoat. 

"Shit," Kuroo says, and his hand, the clean one, it back in Kei's hair, pulling too hard. "I'm not going to last long."

Kei just makes an agreeing sound, and the vibration of it has Kuroo swearing again, and then the bitter taste of come floods Kei's mouth. He chokes on it a bit, but then he swallows, suckling lightly until Kuroo's hips start jerking with oversensitivity. 

Straightening, Kei licks his lips again, catching salt, and catches his breath as Kuroo shivers in front of him, all hooded eyes and swollen lips. 

"I could fall for a mouth like that," Kuroo says, husky and fucked out, and Kei's lips tighten into a thin line.

"Don’t get attached to me," Kei warns him, Kuroo's words dragging up that anxiety again. It never seems too far from the surface. "I’m not good at things like this, and you’ll only be disappointed." 

"All right," Kuroo says, bringing his thumb up to wipe at the corner of Kei’s mouth and coming away with a bit of his own come. "Does that mean we can’t do this again?"

"This? It’s stupid." Kei catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror, pink and debauched, and he quickly returns his gaze to Kuroo. Kuroo’s eyes glint, and the corners of his mouth turn down, his usually open face unreadable. "We definitely shouldn’t do things like this in public."

"Oh," Kuroo says, face shifting into something smug. "I’m not the one who couldn’t control myself, now was I?" Kuroo's cock, half-hard as it rests against his smooth tanned stomach, stirs with interest. Kei could easily take him in hand. Make him hard again. Suck him off again, just for the noise Kuroo makes when he spends himself.

"No," Kei says, softly, taking another step back instead, hoping the clutching hands of desire will loosen their grip on his throat. "You weren’t."

He spins on his heel, unlocking the door, and leaves Kuroo in the bathroom like that, limp and disheveled, and wanders through the halls until he finds Takeda. "Can we leave?"

"Of course," Takeda promptly replies, and then he cranes his head up to search Kei’s face. "You’re not getting sick, are you? You look a little feverish."

"Ukai would kill me if I dared," says Kei, accepting his coat from Takeda and pulling it over his suit jacket. He takes a quick glance around the room, noting that most everyone has left. Kuroo, looking only half put-together, holes in the mesh of his shirt, is standing next to his agent now. Kuroo meets his gaze across the room, and Kei doesn’t flinch from it, holding it until Kuroo quirks a tiny half-smile and turns away.

"I’m glad you seem to be getting along so well with Kuroo," Takeda says, as they walk out to the car. "We weren’t sure if you would."

"Who’s we?" Kei shoves his hands into his pockets, the last remnants of the weekend’s snow crunching underfoot.

"Ukai and I," Takeda says. "He’s a lot more outgoing than you."

Outgoing, Kei thinks, is an oversimplification. Kuroo is confident in his welcome, extending his hand without the fear of a child who’s had it slapped away. He seems to like people, which is more than Kei has ever been able to say about himself. "He’s fine."

"There’s a lot of anticipation for this drama. Kuroo hasn’t been in one in a few years." Takeda unlocks the car doors with his key fob. "All eyes are on you, too, right now."

"That's what everyone keeps saying." Kei slips into the passenger seat, scattering snow from his heavy boots on the floor.

"But… from what I saw in there, during the press conference, it looks like this will be good for your image." Takeda seems amused.

"What’s that supposed to mean?" Kei mutters, but Takeda just gives him a tiny mysterious smile and starts the car. 

*

"Something’s weird with you lately," Tadashi says, as he reaches for the soy sauce. He pours some into the tiny dish next to his plate and mixes in a minuscule amount of wasabi.

"Why bother," Kei says, gesturing with his chopsticks at the wasabi. "You won’t be to taste it."

"I can taste it just fine," Tadashi disagrees, picking up a piece of sashimi and dipping into his mostly-just-soy-sauce. "Don’t change the subject."

"The subject is ridiculous." Kei pokes at a piece of shrimp tempura with little interest. "No point staying on it."

"Is it because of Nametsu?" Kei looks up at Tadashi, who is staring back at him blankly. "That you’re stressed, I mean."

"I’m not stressed."

"You’re definitely stressed," Tadashi says. "But not…" Tadashi hesitates. "You don’t look as grumpy as usual, though."

Kei sighs, picking up the smallest piece of tempura and shoving it into his mouth, chewing on it as he considers. "You’re contradicting yourself."

"I know," Tadashi says. "I guess what I mean is, you look stressed out about not being grumpy."

It’s so close to the problem that Kei almost flinches. He manages to control the urge, and points at Tadashi with his chopsticks. "Leave me alone and eat your sushi."

"Yeah, yeah," Tadashi says. "Keep your secrets. You always do."

"They’re my secrets," Kei replies, stabbing a piece of eggplant tempura. "It’s my right to keep them."

"I guess it is," Tadashi says, and dips a roll of sushi into the soy sauce.

*

Kei's first impression of Nekomata's recording studios is that they are a very fearsome shade of red. The Ukai Agency recording studio that Karasuno had always recorded in, and that Kei himself still uses, had been a sedate navy, and in contrast, Kei feels assaulted by the brightness of Nekoma's usual space.

Kuroo looks like he belongs, though, when Kei arrives, sitting on a plush red sofa with a guitar in his lap as another man with dip-dyed hair next to him hums a tune, typing rapidly on his cell phone. 

"You're here!" Kuroo smiles at him like it's been ages since they saw each other last instead of six days ago. "We're just finishing something up."

"Knew you played the guitar," Kei says aloud, before he can stop himself, and the other man, who Kei recognizes as Kozume, looks up in surprise, like he hadn't noticed Kuroo greeting him at all. 

"How did you guess?" Kuroo, adjusting his fingers on the strings at the neck of the guitar, strums an F minor, peering up at Kei through his lashes. "Do I look like a guitar man?"

"The tips of your fingers," Kei replies, sitting down on the edge of the sofa facing Kuroo and Kozume. "You have guitar calluses, at the tips of your fingers. I meant to ask you about it before."

"Because you like music," Kuroo says, thoughtfully. "Do you play the guitar?"

"A little," Kei says. "And keyboard."

"You were in Shouyo's band," Kozume says, as Kuroo opens his mouth to reply. "Right?"

Kei adjusts his glasses. "Right," he says. "And you're Kozume, who likes video games."

"Just call me Kenma," Kozume says, blinking at Kei a few more times before returning his attention to his phone.

"Good luck with that," Kuroo says. "Kenma's writing lyrics, and he's not the most talkative even if he wasn't."

"At least one of you isn't obnoxious, then," Kei says, and Kozume looks up, tilting his head curiously, before his eyes flick down again. "Are you working on a song for Nekoma?"

"Hmmm," Kuroo says, strumming another F. "Maybe. Not sure if it'll suit Nekoma's sound or not yet. We write a lot together just for fun, though."

Kei relaxes back into the sofa. With Kozume here, and the guitar on Kuroo's lap, it feels safer to let down his guard. "I do that too. Write for fun."

"Why, Tsukishima Kei, are you admitting you have things you like?" Kuroo laughs when he sets down his guitar. "What kind of music is most inspiring for you?"

"Rock music," Kei says. "Anything interesting. Stuff with orchestral influences." Kei taps his fingers on his knees, a secret set of piano notes. "I like complex arrangements that sound simple the first time you listen, but every time you play it back you hear something new. When you can rediscover the same piece of music again and again, that's cool, right?" Kuroo is studying him, a new look on his face, and Kei flushes, realizing he might have said too much. " _What?_ "

"Interviewers _really_ don't ask you the right questions, huh?" Kuroo lifts his guitar over his head and sets it aside. "Listen to this." He walks over to the soundboard and cues something up, hitting play, and even Kozume stops typing as a piece of music starts to play.

It's mellow at first, but then the synthesizer kicks in, turning it into something much more odd, like European '80s pop with something a bit harder running through it. Kei picks apart the pieces, eyes on Kuroo's profile as he listens, letting the song settle into him. When it ends, Kuroo looks back at Kei, waiting.

"Did you make this?" Kei asks, watching as Kuroo drops into the spinning chair in front of the soundboard, stretching his legs out. 

"Depends," Kuroo replies, with a half-smile closer to the one he'd given Haiba Arisa than the ones he usually gives Kei. "Did you like it?"

"The melody is good." Kei tucks his hands into the sleeves of his sweater. "Needs more--"

"Bass," Kuroo says, at the same time as him. "I know. It just sounds cluttered when I add it."

"You could change the tempo a bit," Kei says quietly. "Give everything space to stretch out."

"I could," Kuroo replies, slowly, his eyes dropping to half-mast. "It's a good idea. I'll try it out, later."

"Send it to me," Kei says, and when Kuroo raises a brow, Kei wraps his arms around himself. "When you're done. Send it to me."

"Will do," Kuroo says.

"Finished." Kei turns to look at Kozume, whose gaze flits between them both like they're from another planet. "The lyrics. I'm finished."

"Already?" Kuroo gets up from the spinning chair and collapses next to Kozume, arm automatically stretch out behind him as he leans to inspect the phone screen. Touchy, Kei notes, not for the first time. Kuroo likes to touch. "These are great, Kenma. We can show them to everybody else after Christmas."

Kozume smiles faintly at Kuroo. "Try not to introduce them with a stupid backstory, this time."

"My backstories aren't stupid." Kuroo elbows Kozume, who fixes Kei with a look even as he's jostled.

"His stories are really silly," Kozume says. "Take my word for it."

"So are his jokes," Kei replies.

"You guys can't gang up on me like this." Kuroo crosses one leg across the opposite knee, revealing a stretch of ankle. "It's mean, and I'm very sensitive."

"I'm not ganging up on anyone," says Kozume. "I'm leaving, because the producers are coming to record your OST track in six minutes, and I just got a new 3DS game."

"I rank lower than a 3DS game," Kuroo says, grinning. "I see how it is."

"Only a new one." Kozume nods at Kei. "Tsukishima."

Then it's Kuroo and Kei alone in the recording studio, and Kei wishes Kuroo would pick his guitar back up so that Kei could stop noticing the way his sweater neck is too large, revealing Kuroo's prominent collarbones. 

"Do you want to practice together?" Kuroo asks. "The song, I mean. Before the producers get here." He grabs a folder off of the table, pulling out copies of the song. He hands one to Kei, who shivers when their fingers brush. "Do you like it?"

"Why are you so interested in my opinions, all of a sudden?" Kei drags his fingers along the familiar bars just for something to do with his fingers. He's already memorized the song, forthe most part. 

"I've always been interested." Kuroo is looking down at his copy of the music, too, as he speaks. "You just weren't sharing."

It's true enough, and Kei clears his throat. "You want to start?"

Kuroo's voice, when he sings, isn't anything special, really. Nekoma has always been an ensemble group with no real lead vocalist, even if Kuroo is their main vocal in name. But, Kei decides, it's well-trained, and he might not be a powerhouse, like Azumane, but his tone is rich and full enough to carry even the tougher notes. Kei, in contrast, has always had a quiet voice, best for harmonies and good for simple ad-libs. He's always sounded best on the rock songs he writes for himself, though no one has ever accused him of delivering a poor vocal performance on his pop singles. 

"You're straining," Kuroo says, suddenly, cutting off the chorus. "Taking it too high."

"It's written too high," Kei replies. "Not the first time I'm made to sing out of my range. Kageyama's songs never put me in a comfortable vocal spot unless I give him specific directions."

Kuroo pops his lips thoughtfully, then moves to sit next to Kei, snagging a pencil from the table as he goes. "Then let’s rewrite it, four-eyes."

By the time the producers arrive, twenty minutes late, they've rearranged the whole first part of the song, notes scribbled in Kuroo's chicken-scratch handwriting over Kei's neatly drawn bars, and they're singing comfortable harmonies together, knees bumping and a smile pulling at the corner of Kei's lips at how how much better it sounds. 

"Woah," says one of the producers, her long hair pulled up into a side ponytail. "That's good." She looks over Kei's shoulder at their marked up lyric sheets. "We should record it a cappella as a bonus track."

Kuroo smiles up at her. "We needed to make a few changes so it's not at the upper edge of Tsukishima's range," he says. "That's okay, right?"

"Sure is," she replies. "You wanna get in there and record?"

It only takes them two hours to lay down both versions of the track. It's the shortest recording session Kei's ever participated in. He watches Kuroo behind the glass, singing into the microphone, and marvels at this other side of him, eyebrows set in a straight line as he takes direction and improvises runs, dedicated to getting the sound right in all the ways Kei is. He's still playful, flirting with the producer and winking at Kei every-so-often when Kei leasts expects it, but it's less distracting than the way Nishinoya used to bounce around in the booth, or the way Hinata would belt every single one of his lines, just because he had the lungs to do it, in between takes.

While the producers start piecing everything together, they sit together on one of the bright red sofas, enough space between them for another person to sit there, waiting to see if anything has to be rerecorded. "We should do this again some time," Kuroo says, and Kei looks over at him. Kuroo has his head thrown back, baring his throat, and his perpetually messy hair, without gel, falls dark and soft across his forehead and cheeks.

"Do what?" Kei asks, the tune of their OST song stuck in his head, now. The a cappella version, just their voices sung to the modified melody.

"Work on a song together," Kuroo says. "Maybe a rock song."

"Or a dance track," Kei says. "I like to dance, too."

Kuroo reaches out for him without lifting his head, and Kei watches his hand approach warily. But all Kuroo does is drop his hand down right next to Kei's on the expanse of empty sofa between them, and link their pinkies together. Heat spreads up Kei's arm from the simple touch, and he looks at Kuroo, torn between confusion and a strange, creeping feeling of fondness that he strangles before it can get its hooks in him. It doesn't make any sense, that this feels more intimate than any of the times he's had Kuroo's mouth on his own, but it does. 

"Dancing, huh?" Kuroo laughs quietly. "I was wrong."

"About what?"

Kuroo does loll his head to the side, then, to smile at Kei. It's unpretentious, and just as warm as his pinkie hooked around Kei's. "Singing and dancing? You're not in the wrong profession, after all."

"I could have told you that," replies Kei, and for some reason, doesn't snatch his hand away.

 

*

Hinata is the first to bring it to his attention. He’s kicking the single table in the practice room consistently like a bored toddler at a dinner party as he skims the news on his tablet. It’s oversized in his small hands, adding to the young look that makes him popular with older female fans who like younger brother types.

"Hum, hum, Tsukishima, our fans sure like you and Mr. Tall Cat." He gestures to his tablet, like it explains everything even though Kei can’t see the screen, and Kei can feel a headache coming on. 

"Who is Mr. Tall Cat?" Kageyama asks, slumping into Hinata to take a look. It’s the same way Kuroo had leaned into Kozume, he thinks, before shaking that thought away. 

"Kuroo Tetsurou," Tadashi says, from where he’s sprawled on the floor on the other side of the room, still panting from dance rehearsal. 

Kei is barely winded, this time. He still remembers all of Karasuno’s choreography, really, even if the song they’re doing together for the New Year’s Countdown as a special surprise is at least six years old. They’d performed it last at their farewell concert, fans singing along and waving lightsticks, and Kei had kinda thought he’d never have to wear that many feathers ever again. 

"Oh," Kageyama says, scrolling up through whatever Hinata’s been looking at. His face splits into one of his horror-movie excuses of a smile. " _Oh_."

Kei exhales heavily, annoyed. "Well?"

Hinata _finally_ flips the tablet around, and Kei’s stomach sinks when he see’s a photo from the press junket, Kuroo’s arm around his shoulders, fingers curled around his bicep. Kei is pink-cheeked in the picture, caught between startled and embarrassed, and his eyes are wide. He looks young, in this photo, and soft, and he despises it. 

At a loss for words, Kei just gapes at the picture until Tanaka and Nishinoya come bounding over to take a look. Nishinoya snags the tablet and laughs delightedly. "This headline!"

Tanaka clears his throat. "A softer side of Ex-Karasuno member Tsukishima Kei!" He dissolves into guffaws as he continues reading. " _Fans were delighted to see that even the Ice Prince is weak to the charm of Nekoma member Kuroo Tetsurou at last week’s press junket for_ Rich Man, Poor Man _. Tsukishima, 26, is known for his stoic personality, but even he couldn’t help smiling as Kuroo, 29, told jokes to the reporters. Kuroo also implied the two are close—_ Are you two close?"

"No," Kei replies, then hesitates. "Not really," he amends, and at that, Sugawara, who has been mostly above the fray, working with Sawamura and Azumane in front of the mirror to check his choreography, falls out of position to look back at them in the corner.

"You’re making friends?"

"You say that like I can’t," Kei replies. "Aren’t you the one who told him about how _nice_ I am?"

"I would never. And it’s not that you’re incapable of it," Sugawara replies. "It’s just that you don’t."

"Except with Nametsu," Hinata says, and Kageyama slaps him lightly on the arm. "Ow!"

"We’re not talking about Nametsu yet," Tanaka stage whispers at him, and Hinata nods, wide-eyed, like he’s accepting wisdom from a sage.

"Morons," Kageyama mutters, and Kei hates to agree with Kageyama about anything but he can make exceptions. 

"Let’s talk about Tsukishima’s cute new image, instead!" Nishinoya turns to show Kei another photo. In this one, he’s looking up at Kuroo directly, his expression visibly annoyed. "Although this looks a lot like the Tsukishima I know."

"Yeah butttttttt…." Hinata purses his lips. "Tsukishima doesn’t show that face to not-us. You know, with us, he’s like 'rawr' but then with other people he’s like…" Hinata moves his hands in a box. "Boop, beep, boop, robot, right?"

"Congrats on graduating to visible human emotions," Tanaka says, clapping his shoulder, and Kei shrugs him off, eyes still trained on the picture.

He’s still thinking about the pictures when he pops into Ukai’s office later, checking in tonight because he and Takeda are heading to Osaka in the early morning, trying to miss the Christmas rush. "You wanted to see me?"

"If I’d have known two years ago that putting you with Kuroo would improve your image this much, I would have skipped introducing you to Nametsu entirely," Ukai says, in a tone almost bordering on a whine.

Kei leans against the edge of Ukai’s desk, plucking through the press con pictures Ukai has on his desk. "It came up earlier, when I was practicing with Karasuno," Kei begrudgingly admits. 

"Spend more time with him," Ukai says, bluntly. 

"We’re filming a drama together. I don’t think there will be a lack of that."

"I mean in public," Ukai corrects. "Where people can see you. Go to lunch. Do whatever." It’s the first time Kei’s been given an instruction like that. It had happened early on, with Hinata and Kageyama, back when they’d been at each other’s throats all damn day, and he knows it’s used sometimes to exploit long-time friendships, like with Karasuno’s oldest three members. Kei, though, has never been given this particular directive, since he and Nametsu has gotten themselves seen enough on their own. 

When Kuroo calls him as he’s driving back to his apartment, to ask him if he wants to go to karaoke, Kei turns him down flat. "I have a show tomorrow. That two-day charity concert."

"Tomorrow _night_ ," Kuroo corrects. "Sleep late."

"In _Osaka_." He makes a point of projecting his annoyance.

"Sleep on the train. And when you’re dead."

Kei snickers, covering his mouth so it won’t send through his bluetooth headset. "You’ve really embraced the idol sleep deprivation life, haven’t you?"

"And you haven’t?" 

"Why do you want to hang out with me so much? Are you that bored?"

"I get a thrill out of spending time with people when I’m not sure if they want to kiss me or kill me," Kuroo says, slowly, and Kei curls his hands tighter around the steering wheel.

"Why not both?" Kei murmurs, and Kuroo laughs, the sound of it like molten lava down Kei’s spine. Kei licks his lips. "Ukai wants me to be seen with you," he says.

Kuroo’s throaty laugh on the other end of the line is understanding. "I figured. It’s all about the blushing." 

"You set this up," Kei says, slowly, finally putting together what Kuroo had been trying to tell him in the bathroom at the press junket. "Is that why you’re inviting me to karaoke?"

"No," Kuroo says. "You like to sing, and I liked singing with you, and karaoke rooms are fun. It’s just a fringe benefit, if we get spotted." Kuroo huffs. "So what do you say, four-eyes?"

"Are you going to call me that forever?"

"Probably until you give in and let me call you Tsukki," Kuroo replies unapologetically, and Kei takes a deep breath and looks down at his GPS.

"Give me an address, then," he says, and ignores Kuroo’s smug tone as he reads it out to him.

Kuroo meets him down the underground garage, air puffing out of his mouth like a white cloud as he leans against a pillar.

"How long have you been waiting out here?" Kei asks, after he’s gotten out of his car and locked it. "You’ll get sick."

"Worried about me?" Kuroo is wearing a wool peacoat, top button undone, and the red scarf he’d been wearing when they first crossed paths. 

Kei shrugs. "We start filming soon," he says. "I don’t want you to get me sick."

"You can’t actually catch a viral cold by getting too cold, you know." Kuroo wags his finger at Kei. "If I could, I think all the time I’ve spent with Japan’s Ice Prince would have had me long-ill, don’t you think?"

"I thought you wanted to do karaoke," Kei replies, toying with the zipper of his own coat. "My car’s right there. I can always leave."

"Let’s go then," Kuroo says, hooking his arm through Kei’s. Kei, unsure what to make of it, doesn’t shrug him off; he lets Kuroo lead him to the elevator like that, arms linked like elementary school kids playing a game of _hana ichi monme_ , and doesn’t protest when their arms stay linked when they step out onto the street at ground level.

Kei doesn’t tug his arm free until he hears the click of a mobile phone carmera, turning his head sharply to see that a cluster of high school girls out way too late are snapping photos of them. He shoves his hands into his pockets and does his best not to frown at them, and Kuroo nudges him gently. "Hey, it’s fine," he says. "We wanted to get seen, right?"

"I guess," Sucking his lower lip into his mouth, Kei steals a look at Kuroo, who is looking back at him curiously. "I mean, I don’t go out and get seen with Tadashi, do I? I don’t owe fans my personal life"

"You and Nametsu got spotted all the time." Kuroo doesn’t sound accusing, but Kei hunches his shoulders anyway, figuring Kuroo will ascribe it to the harsh December wind coming whipping between the buildings. "In plenty of places. How is this different?"

Kei had never been clandestinely fucking Nametsu, for one.

"That wasn’t my personal life," he says instead. "That was business." 

Kuroo’s eyebrows furrow, and he opens his mouth, maybe to ask a question, but he seems to think better of it, letting a grin pull at the corner of his mouth. "So I’m not business?" The wind catches in his hair, tousling it. "And here I thought you were putting up with me for the drama’s sake."

"Do I seem like the sort of person who does things like that?" 

Kuroo pushes open the glass doors to a well-lit karaoke place, with bright white lights and pale pink counters. The kind of place popular, he thinks, with office girls after work. Kei feels like they might be walking into a lion’s den. "No," he says, pausing slightly to look over his shoulder at Kei, his eyes flashing gold, "you don’t."

The middle-aged woman behind the counter recognizes them, her eyes going wide as Kuroo pays her for two hours, and she comps them a tray full of snacks and beers, her hands unsteady as she stacks napkins atop the onion straws. "Enjoy," she says, after she tells them they’re in room seven.

"You chose to come here because you knew we’d get recognized." 

Kuroo, carrying the tray, just smirks. "Of course." He hums. "I’m not trying to pull one over on you or anything. Full disclosure, by the way: It’s not just to raise your image. It’s also because people will be more interested in watching our friendship drama if they think it gives them a glimpse into our real friendship. And…" Kuroo nods his head to the door, gesturing without hands for Kei to go ahead of him, "I haven’t been in a drama for awhile."

"We’re not friends." Kei opens the door.

"Okay, okay," Kuroo says. "If you say so, four-eyes."

It’s weird, singing karaoke just the two of them. Kei’d been dragged out with Karasuno for this, often enough, back when they were new idols, and they still sang covers at concerts more than their own tracks. But Kei could fade into the background then, letting Hinata and Kageyama compete angrily for perfect scores from a machine while Nishinoya and Tanaka egged them on, Azumane trying in vain to peace-keep as Sawamura and Sugawara sipped some of their first legal beers in the back, half-asleep from exhaustion and leaning on each other. Tadashi had been content, back then, to sit next to him with a handful of snacks, and they both took videos on their phones for blackmail later when Hinata goaded Kageyama into doing an AKB48 song complete with the choreography. 

Kei cannot fade into the background when it’s only himself and Kuroo. Kuroo chooses mostly girl group songs to sing— loud, bubbly ones with cute dance moves that he insists on trying to make Kei do with him, and Kei chooses mellow Nirvana tracks just to catch his breath. "You would like Nirvana," Kuroo teases, and just for that, Kei picks an Oasis song on his next turn just because it makes Kuroo disappointed in the wake of the Card Captor Sakura theme.

They drink their beers, and at some point, the woman from the front brings back a few more, and the world goes pleasantly warm. Kei’s throat is starting to get a little raw, but nothing that will make it hard for him to sing tomorrow. Kuroo panting as he tries to finish out Dragostea Tin Dei, which is repetitive at the best of times and sounds like the song that never ends while Kei is tipsy, and he’s relieved when it ends, Kuroo collapsing onto the couch, half on top of him, one leg over Kei’s as he laughs.

"Heavy," Kei complains, pushing Kuroo with his trapped arm, and Kuroo is suddenly laughing into Kei’s neck, warm lips at his jugular. "Get off."

"Mmm, good idea," Kuroo says, and then he’s licking up Kei’s neck.

Kei gasps, turning his head to look at Kuroo, only to have his mouth caught in a kiss, wet and hot, Kuroo’s mouth beer-sour and sloppy as he presses in. Kei grips Kuroo’s shirt at the wave of sudden dizziness, the heady rush of alcohol and endorphins and the increasing familiarity of Kuroo’s lips against his own. His knuckles dig into Kuroo’s sternum, and Kuroo groans, shifting his body to cover Kei’s completely, caging him in on the plastic sofa and surrounding him with the scent of winter pine trees and beer. 

It’s the remote digging into Kei’s thigh that reminds them where they are. "No," he mumbles, pushing lightly with his knuckles, still pressed to Kuroo’s chest, and Kuroo pulls back immediately, thin string of saliva connecting their lips as he searches Kei’s face worriedly.

"Something wrong?" He’s sitting in Kei’s lap, making it hard for Kei to remember his objections, but Kei licks his lips and forces himself to stop staring at Kuroo’s.

"Not here," Kei says, and Kuroo’s face softens with understanding.

"What, you don’t want that nice woman at the front counter to see me sucking you off?" Kuroo cups Kei’s jaw, and Kei, still trying to breath, glares at him. "All right, Tsukishima, come back to my place then."

Only Kei has an early morning train, and Kuroo lives forty minutes from here, and they have to take a cab because they’ve both had more than a single beer, so going back to Kuroo’s Azabu apartment doesn’t seem like a good idea. "I live closer," Kei says, and Kuroo’s lips part, surprise flickering in his gaze briefly before he gives Kei a salacious grin. 

"In a hurry?" He purrs the words, so Kei shoves, hard, and Kuroo has to catch himself with both hands to keep from falling, even as he laughs.

Kei licks his lips again, and straightens his glasses. "Maybe I’ll go home, and you can stay here."

"Now, now," Kuroo says, standing up. "We can’t have that." He bends forward to kiss Kei again, licking into his mouth with clear intent. "Come on, then, four-eyes, let’s get out of here."

They don’t bother fastening their coats, and Kuroo’s bright scarf hangs unwound about his neck as they leave the parlor, bowing quickly to the still flustered woman behind the counter and hailing a cab. They don’t touch each other at all in the backseat, a good amount of distance between them, but all that does for Kei is up the tension, making him overly aware every time Kuroo moves. When they get dropped off near Kei’s apartment building, handing the driver more than enough to cover the fare, Kei gets out of the car first and hurries to enter his passcode. He nods to the guard on the way up, dragging Kuroo into the stairway instead of the elevator. 

"The stairs?" Kuroo asks, and Kei pushes Kuroo back into the wall and kisses him hungrily, letting his fingers muss Kuroo’s hair as Kuroo chuckles into his mouth. 

"No CCTV," Kei says, when he pulls away. "And I live on the second floor."

"Saving the environment, I see." Kuroo palms his ass. "Can’t hurt your glutes, either."

"I’m a dancer," replies Kei, pulling back and leading Kuroo up to his apartment. 

He quickly punches in the code, his door beeping open, and he pushes open the door. Kuroo follows him quickly inside, closing the door behind him as Kei slips out of his shoes and up onto the landing, shedding his coat and putting it on the hanger. Kuroo mimics him, casting a look around Kei’s mostly beige and brown apartment. "So this is where the mysterious Tsukishima Kei lives," he says.

"Do you want a tour?" Kei raises an eyebrow challengingly, and Kuroo grins at him dangerously.

"Maybe later," he says, stepping into Kei’s personal space, cupping his face with both hands, and kissing him. He isn’t gentle or careful, this time, pushing Kei back until they bump into the hall wall, then grabbing Kei’s thighs and lifting him up so Kei has to grapple for purchase, wrapping his legs around Kuroo’s waist and digging his fingers into Kuroo’s shoulders as he’s held, suspended, against the wall. "I’m sure it’s very nice, though."

"What?" Kei rasps, fumbling in again for more kisses, banging his upper lip against Kuroo’s teeth before angling his head just right to slip into Kuroo’s hot mouth.

"Your apartment," Kuroo mumbles, against Kei’s cheek. "I changed my mind, though. Show me the bedroom, at least." Kei ruts forward, rubbing his erection against Kuroo’s, and Kuroo swears right into his ear, grabbing the lobe and sucking on it in revenge as Kei bucks forward for friction again. "Worst host."

"Let me down, then," Kei replies.

"If I must," Kuroo says, claiming Kei’s mouth one last time before he moves back, allowing Kei to slide his legs back down to the floor and lead Kuroo back toward his bedroom.

His bed is half made, duvet rumpled, and all his weird child-like collections are on display, but he barely has time to think about any of that as Kuroo pulls on the hem of his sweater. Kei pulls it over his head, and he’s barely gotten it off of his arms before Kuroo is running his hands down Kei’s pale chest, a thumb catching at his left nipple as his other palm goes straight down Kei’s abs, settling at his hip.

"If I was a teenager," Kuroo says, lowly, as he dips his head to mouth at Kei’s collarbone, "I’d definitely put a poster of you on my wall."

"Is that supposed to be a compliment?" Kei asks, as he fumbles with Kuroo’s belt buckle. Kuroo laughs, and the sucks, worrying at the skin and no doubt leaving a bruise. "If so, I—"

Kuroo swallows the rest of Kei’s sentence with his lips, and then they’re losing their clothes, stripping articles from each other as the exchange long, heated kisses that never seem to really end. Kuroo kisses him so much that Kei can feel the swelling in his lips and the burn of Kuroo’s beard on his cheeks and lips and chin, a constant tingle.

By the time Kuroo pushes him down onto the covers, Kei’s so hard he aches with it, his cock sticky at the tip as it bobs against his stomach. Kuroo, one knee on the bed as he stands over him, is just as hard, and Kei reaches out to stroke him with one hand as he circles himself with the other. 

Kuroo’s breath whistles out of him as Kei thumbs the head of both of their cocks. "Do you have…" 

"Black basket on the shelf," Kei replies. 

Kuroo chuckles. "The one with all the dinosaur figurines?"

"Shut up," Kei replies, and Kuroo swoops down and kisses him on the nose, in another of those strange gestures that feels more intimate than sex, dislodging Kei’s hand from his erection.

"Dinosaurs are a perfectly respectable hobby," Kuroo whispers, right into his ear, and Kei shivers at his tone even as he scowls.

"Get out of my apartment," he says.

"It would be awful difficult to make you come from out there," says Kuroo. "But I suppose there’s always the phone, like last time." His eyes flash, and he’s moving toward the shelf, firm muscles in his back and ass flexing as he walks with catlike grace. He always looks, Kei thinks, a little feline. A little predatory. Kuroo returns to the bed with lube and a strip of condoms, setting the condoms down and examining the unopened bottle of lube. It’s the thick kind, and Kei’s never need to open that one. Not here, at his apartment, anyway. As he uses his nail to nick at the plastic, he looks at Kei through his lashes. "Do you remember what I told you I wanted to do to you, then?" 

Kei flushes, and Kuroo hums.

"You’ve done this before, right?" Kuroo’s hand slides up Kei’s bare thigh, and Kei’s reminded, suddenly, that this is the first time Kuroo is seeing him quite like this, naked and spread out on his own bed waiting to be fucked. "Had someone inside you, I mean."

"Yes," Kei replies, licking his lips, and he flushes even deeper as Kuroo’s eyes go a fraction darker, more molten. "What, did you think I’ve spent years saving myself for someone like you?"

Chuckling, Kuroo pushes Kei’s thighs a little further apart, scooting up to fit into the space between them as his lip curls into a now-familiar smirk. "Maybe," Kuroo replies. "Just making sure." The click of a cap has Kei closing his eyes, but he opens them again when a slick finger taps his rim, cold as it circles the muscle teasingly, not pushing in.

"You don’t have to be gentle with me," Kei says, his cock heavy against his belly as Kuroo continues his torturously slow tapping and circling.

Kuroo’s laugh is husky this time, like he’s been running. His cheeks are red and it extends down his bare chest as he looks down at Kei, lips slightly parted. "This is my own special way of being rough," he says, eventually, dipping just the tip of his finger in before slipping right back out. "Now keep your hands out of my way."

Kei grunts in frustration, shifting his hips, and Kuroo uses his free hand to capture Kei’s thigh, fingers curling around the thickest part as he adjusts Kei, pulling him into his lap. "Are you going to do something, or—" He cuts off as Kuroo’s finger pushes in again, further this time, and the stretch of it commands all of Kei’s attention. 

"So impatient with me." Kuroo wiggles the finger, and it’s been so long since Kei’s had something inside him that he’s not sure what to focus on. He curls his toes, wanting to buck his hips and pull the finger the rest of the way in, but the hold Kuroo has on his thigh is firm and unyielding. "Tsk, tsk, let me take my time."

But Kei feels like he’s been hard forever, and the tip of Kuroo’s finger isn’t enough to get him off. "More," he says. "Don’t just—" He cuts off with a gasp as Kuroo slowly pushes a single deep and curls it. It burns as much as it feels good, an uncomfortable stretch with something sweet around the edges. 

"Okay?" Kuroo asks, evenly, curling and uncurling the finger inside of Kei a couple more times before pulling it out. Kei doesn’t open his eyes, just bites down on his lower lip, and when Kuroo thrusts back in with his finger again, he almost bites through it, his hips jerking up as the discomfort of the stretch disappears in the wake of the pleasant feeling of fullness. "Hmm?"

"You talk _so_ much," Kei says, feeling the tip of a second finger at his rim, cold and slippery. "Just fuck me."

"Do I seem like the kind of guy," Kuroo says, dragging both fingers in long, slow circles, building excruciating anticipation, "who will _just_ fuck you, Tsukishima?"

"I—" Kuroo pushes in both digits, and Kei’s body tenses, arching up to ease the fullness as Kuroo places a hand flat on his belly to hold him down.

"Easy," Kuroo says, amused, his palm flat on Kuroo’s stomach, knuckles brushing his dick in the most fluttering of glanced touches. He hooks the two fingers inside of Kei up, stretching, pushing, until his fingertips skim the spot inside Kei that makes him moan embarrassingly loud. "Pretty."

"I’m not _pretty_ ," Kei manages, as Kuroo brushes that spot again and again, methodically scissoring his fingers to make space inside of Kei for another. Kei loses himself in the touches, his hips moving against Kuroo’s hand as much as they can with Kuroo’s palm holding him down, trying to ride his fingers for more pressure where he wants it. "Hurry _up_."

"I was watching another one of your interviews, yesterday," Kuroo says, and then he’s sliding his fingers completely out of Kei, leaving Kei to fall limp and sweating back against the covers, legs spread obscenely wide. "One with your whole group, from about six years ago." The sound of the cap again, and Kuroo is pushing in with three fingers. Kei tries to wriggle down onto them, to somehow adjust to the stretch. "In the pop quiz section, everyone chose you for 'most laid back', but I’m not really seeing it."

"Fuck you," Kei gasps, as Kuroo curls three fingers up, pushing right into his prostate, and Kei whimpers, legs going tense as the tingle spreads up his lower back. He can feel a spurt of precome hot against his belly. Kei balls his hands up into fists, grasping at the duvet. A trickle of sweat eases down the nape of his neck, and there’s too much to pay attention to, and nothing to anchor him as Kuroo continues to push his rough, guitar-callused fingertips against Kei’s prostate.

"Although you are laid out on your back right now." Kuroo says. "Does that count?"

Kei wants to snap at him, but then Kuroo is fucking him quickly with three fingers, roughly reaching his prostate every time, each time leaving Kei wound up a bit tighter, a bit closer to the edge, and Kei doesn’t have the breath to snap, to even speak, as heat coils in his gut, rutting his hips up against nothing. 

Right as he feels it, that teetering precipice of orgasm, Kuroo withdraws his fingers, and Kei collapses, panting, back against the duvet, complaint a high whine in the back of his throat.

"You’re shaking," Kuroo says, and the hand on Kei’s belly drags up his ribs as Kuroo’s lube-sticky hand grips his thigh and adjusts him. He can feel Kuroo’s cock against the inside of his right thigh, warm and hard. "You still okay?"

Kei opens his eyes to look at Kuroo, his lashes brushing the lenses of his glasses as he blinks to clear his eyes. Kuroo is pouring more lube on his hand. "Yes," Kei croaks out, and Kuroo smiles at him, and Kei’s heart skips a little at the look in his eyes. 

"Good," Kuroo says, and then he’s got one finger back inside Kei, and his other hand wrapped around the base of his shaft, stroking slowly upward and the tightening his hand before going back down. Kei hisses through his teeth, and Kuroo laughs. "I’ve got you." 

Kuroo jerks him torturously slow, and adds a second finger to massage his prostate, building up the pressure inside Kei again and backing off every time Kei get’s close. Kei’s breaths are only shallow gasps when Kuroo lets go of his cock completely, grabbing Kei’s hip to steady him before easing four fingers in, stretching Kei so open that he doesn’t know whether to jerk away from the pressure or into it, thighs trembling and mouth open in a silent scream. 

"I knew you’d look good like this," Kuroo says, rubbing against Kei’s walls with four fingertips. Kei can barely hear him over the sound of rushing water in his ears, accompanied by the heavy bass of his own heartbeat. His cock is spurting constant dribbles of sticky precome as he fucks himself down onto Kuroo’s fingers, tears collecting in his lashes and tongue pressed to the roof of his mouth. "If you let me wreck you like this."

Kei’s so close he’s shivering with it, every muscle in his body tight, and when Kuroo pulls his fingers out this time, Kei has to bite back a plea, refusing to let it cross his lips as he lies quivering half in Kuroo’s lap and half on the bed, aching and wanting. 

"I hate you," Kei rasps, and Kuroo slaps his thigh, sending another spike of electricity through him. 

"No, you really don’t," Kuroo replies, and the rip of aluminium tells Kei that Kuroo has finally opened one of the condoms. "I’m going to fuck you now."

"I’ve only aged ten years," Kei says, forcing his eyes to focus on Kuroo as he puts Kei’s legs over his shoulders, the hand on Kei’s hip lifting him enough that he can feel the head of Kuroo’s cock pressing against where he’s been thoroughly stretched. "Would you just fucking—"

"Not laid back at all," Kuroo says, and then thrusts in, harsh enough to steal all the breath from Kei’s body, and starts a punishing pace, hips slapping the back of Kei’s thighs. Kei pushes back on every thrust, nails digging into his palms, and his eyes are wide as Kuroo repeatedly slams into his prostate, sending him closer and closer to orgasm. "You gonna come?"

Kei can’t respond as his whole body lights up, nerves tensing and releasing as the world slips briefly through his fingertips. Come splatters on his chest and neck as Kuroo fucks him through it, fingers digging into Kei’s thighs now and probably leaving bruises behind. Kei writhes and whimpers as he comes down, oversensitive, but Kuroo continues his steady thrusts, his eyes bright as he watches Kei try not to fall apart beneath him. "Can you take it?" Kuroo asks, hitting his prostate again, and Kei rocks his hips up in answer, and his fogged glasses make it hard to see the rest of Kuroo’s face but already knows the other man is smirking. 

When Kuroo comes, he presses his mouth to the skin just above the inside of Kei’s knee and bites, and the mix of the pain along with the feeling of Kuroo throbbing inside of him has Kei coming dry for a second time, a shuddering orgasm that leaves him spent and shaking as Kuroo eases out of him slowly, lowering him to the bed. Then Kuroo is hovering over him, arms on either side of Kuroo’s head, and licking the come off of his neck, dropping kisses on his chin on his way up to Kei’s mouth. When they kiss, Kei can taste himself, but it’s fine, really, when Kuroo’s mouth is still so desperate, like there’s still so much of Kei wants. 

They kiss until Kei is half asleep with it, lips slowing as Kuroo pulls away with a last suck on his lower lip. "Bathroom?"

"Ensuite," Kei says, uncurling his fingers to point lazily, and Kuroo laughs, climbing off the bed as Kei pushes up on his glasses, undoubtedly leaving fingerprints. 

Kuroo returns only a few minutes later, with a wet cloth, running it down Kei’s chest to clean away the rest of his come, and then wiping down between his thighs. Kei sucks his teeth in annoyance when Kuroo drags the cloth along the bite mark on his inner thigh. 

"I told you a long time ago," Kuroo says, laughing, "I definitely bite."

"What are you, a stray?" Kei says, drowsiness making it hard for him to sound as sharp as he means to. 

"If I am, will you let me stay the night?" Kuroo sits on the edge of the bed. He trails a finger up Kei’s side as he looks at him with a tiny curling kitty-cat grin. "Or should I ask permission from all the dinosaurs?"

"Either sleep or leave," Kei replies, bringing one hand up to cover his face, dislodging his glasses all over again. 

Kuroo clears his throat. "Can I take them off for you?"

"I don’t know that I have anything left to take off."

"Your glasses, four-eyes." Kei lets his hand fall so he can glare up at Kuroo, whose finger is still tracing patterns into the skin just below Kei’s ribs. "I choose sleep, by the way."

"Fine," Kei says, swallowing harshly as the room goes fuzzy. Kuroo sets his glasses down with a click on the beside table.

"Picked up your phone, too," Kuroo says. "What time do you want your alarm set for?"

"Six," Kei murmurs, trying to make out Kuroo in the dark. "Unlock is…" He pauses. "Unlock is 18782."

" _I-ya-na-ya-tsu._ " Kuroo runs his thumb across Kei’s cheekbone. "Unpleasant guy?"

"Hinata chose it back when we were sixteen. It’s easy to remember."

"And not remotely nostalgic," Kuroo says, sarcastically, and Kei frowns in his general direction. "You can’t see at all without these, can you?"

"Plus everyone can see me," says Kei, and then he presses his lips together in regret. "Stop looming like a creep."

"Yes, sir," Kuroo says, tapping quickly on Kei’s phone before setting it down on the nightstand. He crawls into bed with Kei, cuddling close like Kei is a stuffed animal instead of a person, but he’s warm and the room is chilly, so Kei doesn’t protest beyond wiggling enough to put a hand’s-breadth between their torsos. "So do the dinosaurs have names?"

"They’re not toys," Kei replies. "They’re historically accurate models." He yawns, and Kuroo chuckles quietly.

"Tell me about it later, nerd," he says, then kisses his shoulder, lightly. "Goodnight, Firefly."

Kei blinks, wondering if he misheard, but he’s so tired he lets himself drift off, the question on his lips lost to sleep.

He wakes up to the sound of his alarm with an arm around his waist, his back pressed to a warm chest, and lips pressed to the nape of his neck. He freezes, his lower body and sticky skin reminding him of last night, and he takes a deep breath before lifting the arm up and scooting out from under it. 

"Alarm _already_?" Kuroo asks, and Kei stands up, his thighs complaining, to turn off his alarm. He shoves his glasses onto his face, and then he turns around to look at Kuroo. The other man’s messy black hair is even messier than usual, tangled and wavy and sideways with sleep. He’s still beautiful, really, with his sharp features softened in the early morning sunlight streaming in. Kei’s stomach twists. "Ungodly."

"I have to go pick up my car," Kei says. "You can sleep longer, if you want."

"You’re going to leave me here alone?" Kuroo’s tongue peeks out to wet his lips. "I’ll get lonely."

"There’s always your right hand."

"I’ll have you know I’m ambidextrous," Kuroo replies. "You gonna be thinking about that while you’re on the train? Me jerking off in your bed?"

Kei narrows his eyes. "No," he says, and he’ll try not to make that a lie, since he’ll be sitting next to Takeda the whole time. 

"Don’t worry, I won’t really get lonely. The dinosaurs will keep me company." Kei sneers at him, and Kuroo laughs. "You’re driving to Ukai Agency?" He props himself up on one elbow, white sheet sliding down tan skin.

"No," Kei replies. "Takeda will pick me up in about an hour. But I don’t want to leave my car in that garage."

Kuroo smiles at him lopsidedly. "Leave me the keys," he says. "I’ll go get it for you." He runs a hand through his hair. "It’ll cost you, though."

"Cost me what?" Kei stretches his arms above his head lazily, and Kuroo’s smile grows mischievous.

"A duet," Kuroo replies. "You and me, from scratch. A dance song, maybe."

Kei studies Kuroo for a long moment, waiting for his heartbeat to quiet enough that he can hear himself speak. "All right," he says. "I’ll leave the keys on the kitchen counter." He walks over to his dresser and grabs clean underwear and a tee. "Don’t crash it."

"I would never," Kuroo vows, lips twitching. "Aren’t you in a hurry?"

"Yeah," says Kei. He hesitates at the door of the bathroom, looking over his shoulder at Kuroo. "Don’t eat any of my cake in the fridge."

"All right, Tsukishima," Kuroo says easily, and Kei can hear him laughing through the closed bathroom door.

*

It’s toward the end of his train ride to Osaka, a mostly pleasant affair thanks to the emptiness of the business-class car, that Kei gets a text from Kuroo, the chime unpleasant and jarring in the middle of the mellow song playing. 

It’s a photo of his black Honda, parked along the street. didn’t know your parking space number, it reads, but as promised, home safe~ holding your keys hostage at my place

Kei runs his thumb indecisively across the screen, unsure if he wants to reply. Ultimately, he settles on whatever, and puts his phone back into his pocket, leaning back in his seat and closing his eyes. He opens them again to a tap on his knee a few minutes later, and he moves one headphone forward to listen to Takeda.

"We’ll be at our stop in ten minutes," Takeda says, and Kei nods, casting a quick glance at his backpack between his feet to make sure it’s still zipped. It is, so he shrugs, and goes to pull his headphone back into place when he notes that Takeda is still looking at him, gnawing uncertainly on his lower lip. 

"Just tell me," Kei says, and Takeda starts to wring his hands together.

"Nametsu Mai will be performing tonight," Takeda says. "Two tracks, two acts before you."

Kei frowns, and shifts in his seat, sending a sharp line of pain up his back, because he’s still sore from last night. "So?"

Takeda’s still looking at him all earnest, and Kei feels slightly nauseated. "I’m sorry for not mentioning it before. I wasn’t sure if I should even mention it now, but I didn’t want you to see her and be surprised."

"Okay," Kei says. He turns to look out the window, still listening to his music with one ear as he tries to organize his thoughts. It’s only been a few weeks since Nametsu had, in some roundabout way, both confessed to him and broken up with him, landing him in one of the biggest negative press plays of his career. He doesn’t particularly want to see her, but he supposes it was inevitable— not because idols must necessarily cross paths, but because someone was going to engineer it eventually, and better at a concert than on a variety program, where they’d be forced to confront each other with words. "It doesn't matter."

"It matters," Takeda says. "People will be watching, so it definitely matters."

"I don't have to interact with her," Kei replies. "I'm singing three songs, and then appearing on stage in the finale." 

"That's true," Takeda says, the lines in his face relaxing. "Still, be careful, all right? Your image is in a strange limbo, right now?"

"I've spent years being considered cold and unapproachable," says Kei. "It's mostly true. I'm still here, though."

"That's... also true," Takeda says, but then he hesitates. "The thing is, being cold and unapproachable isn't the same as being cruel. You're not cruel, Tsukishima, for all that you'd like to project it."

Kei thinks, in some ways, that he is a little cruel. He's never been really able to soften his blows, and he's never really wanted to. He doesn't tell white lies to make people feel better, and he exploits weaknesses ruthlessly if it'll get him the reaction he wants from someone else. He'd proven that with Kageyama, back at the beginning of Karasuno, hadn't he?

"And," Takeda says, before Kei can wrestle with some way to articulate even a fraction of that, "Nametsu isn't just anyone. You knew that when you chose to date her without even clearing it with Ukai."

Kei presses his hand to his stomach absently to calm it, and turns to look out the window. "I said it'll be fine."

"Well, I hope so," Takeda frets, and he might say something else but Kei's already got his headphone back in place, drowning out the world, and he turns his volume up to be sure of it.

They go immediately to Osaka Castle Hall from the train station, Kei with his cap pulled low and his hood up to keep from being recognized by his hair. They take a taxi, Takeda with Kei's costume and Kei with everything else in his backpack. Sound check has just started when they arrive, and Kei is quickly ushered back to where the waiting rooms are located and handed a packed lunch by a harried looking production assistant. 

Kei picks at his food, almost wishing Yachi and the other Karasuno Girls were here, just so that he'd have some kind of shield to keep people from wanting to talk to him besides his oversized headphones. He doesn't mind doing this two-night concert, even on Christmas Eve— it's for charity, after all, but he's always hated big all-star events like this, because he doesn't even like groups of people even when he knows them all. There's also the fact that he keeps thinking he's spotted Nametsu out of the corner of his eye.

"You look jumpy," says a voice from behind him, loud enough to be heard over his music, and a hand claps him on the shoulder. Kei looks up to see a friendly-looking man looming over him, and he looks between the man's bright white hair and the hand on his shoulder in an attempt to figure out why the man is touching him. "What ya worried bout, Tsukishima?"

Kei blinks at the man, and then, slowly, reaches up to take off his headphones. "Do you need something?"

"Nope," the man says, and Tsukishima finally summons up his name. Bokuto Koutarou, he thinks, from The Night Owls. Kei likes their music, because it's an eclectic mix of rock and alternative, a little louder and edgier than anything idols groups are coming out with lately. Bokuto seems loud himself, dropping down into the chair next to Kei without every once stopping his fidgeting movement, his eyes wide and curious as he examines Kei's face. "Just been wondering 'bout you, is all!" He holds out a hand, like an American, for Kei to shake, and Kei looks at it for a few moments with a blank expression before Bokuto laughs and drops it. "I'm Bokuto, by the way."

"I know," replies Kei. "But what do you need?"

"You're Tsukishima," Bokuto continues, as if Kei hasn't spoken, "and you've been hanging out with one of my best buds."

Kei considers that, and then recalls that Kuroo had been on the phone with someone named Bokuto back before the press junket. "We're in a drama together, yes."

"Aaaaaaaaand," Bokuto says, loudly enough to draw too much attention from a few other people sharing lunch, and Kei slumps slightly in his seat, "going to karaoke together!" Bokuto waves his phone. "You got papped, my man, papped! Having fun _without me_!"

"I don't even know you." Kei leans back as Bokuto's face falls in exaggerated sadness. 

"I know," he says, "but that's totally unfair, because Kuroo's, like, one of my number one pals!" He points at Tsukishima. "So you should know me!" He laughs, loudly, and Kei finds himself surprisingly more amused than annoyed, even if Bokuto seems more child than grown man. "Plus, Kuroo told me to look after you today!"

At that, though, Kei almost drops his disposable chopsticks. "What?"

"Hmmmmmmmmmm," Bokuto's lips purse briefly. "Something about an ex-girlfriend??" Bokuto leans forward suddenly. "Right, right, you're the jerk who broke up with Nametsu Mai in public and made her cry!"

"That's me," Kei says, dryly, even as his mind races. "Kuroo asked you to look after me?" He doesn't mean to say it aloud, but it slips out, and Bokuto crosses his arms as his brow furrows. 

"Not exactly like that," Bokuto says. "More like, he told me that you might get grumpy, so I should cheer you up!"

Kei can imagine Kuroo saying something like that far too easily, and it's a warm blossoming heat in his chest at the very idea. It's... well, it's like being thoughtful is something Kuroo does without much premeditation, and Kei isn't sure what to make of it. Especially when it concerns Kei himself. "More like he's inflicting you on me," he says, after a long silence.

"Hey, hey, hey," Bokuto protests, "I am the super-popular, super-talented lead singer of The Night Owls! Be nice to me!" He pokes Kei's face, and Kei slaps his hand away. "You're kinda cute, in a pissy way."

Kei stabs a piece of chicken with his chopsticks. "Well, now you've met me, and I don't need to be taken care of. So you can go."

"Naw," Bokuto says, reaching over and plucking a piece of chicken from Kei's bento, "I think I'll stick around."

"Lucky me," Kei says, and by the time he's finished eating, fending away Bokuto's attempts to steal his food, he realizes he hasn't looked for Nametsu once since Bokuto joined him.

 _Don't sic your rabid forest-creature friends on me,_ he texts Kuroo, when Bokuto is dragged away by a smaller, dark-haired man who's also in his band to do soundcheck.

Kuroo replies when Kei is in makeup. _you love it,_ is all Kuroo says, and Kei wonders if Kuroo had been able to read the faintest bit of gratitude between the lines. 

Kei is, despite being only one-tenth of Karasuno, still one of the more popular acts in the show, and he performs in the last act, with Spy Air and The Night Owls and Nametsu Mai. He doesn't watch Nametsu's performance, taking a bathroom break while her catchy October single plays over the speakers, and when he heads to the wings, she isn't there. 

Bokuto obnoxiously claps him on the back before he goes to sing, and Kei gives him a filthy look before purposefully straightening his suit and walking briskly out onto the stage, to cheers that don't feel any less loud than they'd been before all the Nametsu drama started. He sings his newest single and two of his older songs, the lights shining down on him and obscuring the audience, and then there's more cheering as he exits, making way for Spy Air to close the show. 

Takeda hands him a towel, and he pats his face dry, leaving foundation streaks behind on the white terrycloth, and then looks up to see, over Takeda's shoulder, Nametsu Mai. She's still wearing her stage costume, complete with the pale green gossamer skirt and a pair of wings, and her hair is almost blond, now, pulled to the side in a low ponytail.

"You sounded good," she offers, and Takeda clears his throat, murmuring a quiet _"excuse me"_ as Kei pats his face again, giving himself a moment to think. 

"It's my job to sound good," Kei replies, finally, and Nametsu looks down and fingers the material of her skirt. It's the same green as Iron Wall Talent's logo, and Kei bets that's not a coincidence. Everything idols do is on purpose, after all. 

"I know," Nametsu says. "I wanted to..." She looks directly into his eyes. "I wanted to apologize."

Kei looks around. People are studiously looking elsewhere, but Kei knows they're paying attention, and he hates it. "Can you stop initiating these kinds of conversations in public?"

She jerks, visibly startled by the tightness in his voice, and then she seems to deflate. "I..."

He blinks, wishing he was wearing his damn glasses-- he always wishes he was wearing his glasses-- and gestures toward one of the now-empty waiting rooms. "There," he says.

She nods, and doesn't speak again until he's closed the door. "I really am sorry," she says, when the quiet starts to become heavy.

"For what?" Kei stares at her, feeling cold and miserable, and angry but not entirely at her. 

"Liking you, I guess," she says, and Kei snorts. "And for getting you in trouble with the press. I... that wasn't on purpose, I promise."

"That's not..." Kei hooks his fingers in his tie, loosening it. "I don't care if you like me." It comes out all wrong, meaner than he intends, and Kei rubs at his temples. "I don't like you. Things like that happen, and it's not the end of the world. The problem is that you're perfectly aware that I don't deal well with--" He waves his fingers, trying to signify the entirety of human emotions with the smallest possible gestures, "--and dropping that kind of stuff on me in public was never going to get you an answer you liked."

"It seems obvious in hindsight," Nametsu admits, giving him one of her cute little smiles, even if it is strained. "It's just you never wanted to meet me in private."

"Shouldn't that have been a hint?" Kei's jaw is tight. 

"You were nicer to me," Nametsu says. "Nicer to me than you were to anyone else. I thought--"

"That's still not very nice," Kei replies, bluntly. "True love isn't me being slightly less of an asshole to you than I am to other people. I was nice to you because I knew what you wanted from me, and I was okay with it."

"Oh," she says. "I thought you might like me, a little."

"I like you fine," Kei says. "I don't have romantic feelings for you. I won't ever." 

"I've got the picture," she says. "You don't... hate me, right? I mean, I got you into this whole fake romance, and then ended it in a way that looks terrible for you."

Kei sucks his teeth. "Do you actually care, or do you just think you’re supposed to?"

"Of course I actually care." She frowns up at him. "Your feelings are important to me." 

"I don't have feelings," replies Kei. "That's a waste of time." He runs a hand through his hair, and it comes away sticky from hairspray. 

"You definitely have feelings," Nametsu says. "I've seen hints of them before, you know. It's the reason I..." She laughs. "It's stupid, isn't it? I thought you'd say 'yes' because no one ever says no to me." She tugs at her ponytail. "Instead you said _"I would never, ever date someone like you for real."_

She's looking at him pleadingly, now, and he doesn't know why. He has no idea what she wants from him, really. She'd been one of the few people in his life who'd made sense to him, with understandable motivations and tangible goals he could respect, and he’d let her get a little closer to him, but then she’d expected _more_ , and he’s always been unprepared to offer that. He hates that he resents her for not fitting in a box, and he sort of hates himself for wanting her to. 

Kei ends up staring at her for a few moments, his lips in a thin line, and then he bows. "I'm going first," he says, and he leaves her there, guilt like a heavy stone at the bottom of his stomach.

Takeda is waiting for him anxiously outside the dressing room. "Is everything okay?"

"I'm tired," Kei says, without any energy at all. He feels kind of empty, and he wishes he could go sit in his studio and play on the keyboard until his brain stops yelling at him. Or drag Kuroo in there with him, and Kuroo could bring his guitar-- He stops that thought in its tracks, shoving it down as deep as it'll go. "I want to sleep."

He stays under the hotel shower long enough for his fingers and toes to prune, and wonders if understanding the people around him ever gets easier, or if the uncertainty is ever worth it.

He sleeps late the next day, and doesn’t show up at the venue until ten minutes before his soundcheck, making it impossible for anyone to talk to him. Bokuto invites him out after the show, and pouts when Kei declines. "In Tokyo for sure," he says. "Kuroo will make you come out with us!"

"Kuroo can’t make me do anything," replies Kei. "Besides, he wouldn’t."

"Wouldn’t what?" Bokuto’s hair is so bright in contrast to the black denim of his jacket. "Force you to hang out with us?"

 _Kuroo always asks_ , Kei answers in his head. _And explains why he’s asking._ "Yeah," Kei says. "I think he might be ashamed of you."

"Hey!" Bokuto hollers, as Kei waves goodbye to him, walking toward the back exit of the venue where Takeda undoubtedly waits with a cab.

*

It’s overly warm in Kuroo’s apartment-studio, in stark contrast to the bitter chill outside. Kuroo's arm brushes Kei's every time Kei moves to fiddle with a change to the melody, bare skin hot despite Kei's long sleeve T-shirt.

"Mmm," says Kuroo, tapping along to the percussion as the short song loops, just the other side of annoying. "I like that. What if you took it up a step, though?"

Kei flexes his fingers, and then plays the modification on the keyboard. "Like that?" He turns to look at Kuroo, only to find the man looking back at him with a small, bemused grin. "What?"

"I didn't think you'd stay." Kuroo's fingers stop drumming. "You didn't look like you were in the mood to stay, when I opened the door."

"Didn't sleep well," Kei replies, draging his fingers along the keys but not pressing hard enough to play any notes. "Sometimes it happens, after I travel."

"Then why'd you stop by today at all?" Kuroo stretches his arms above his head, fingers interlocked, and the muscles twist and stretch under his skin. Kuroo looks like summer despite the snow falling, tan and warm and bare-shouldered. "Did you think I was going to take your car for a joyride?" He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. "I'd rather do that with it's owner."

Heat rises in Kei's cheeks, and he scowls. "You want to ride me?"

"Sure," Kuroo says. "But not like a car. Like a horse." He drops his arms, letting one of them drape across Kei's shoulders. "Like a _stallion_."

"I'm leaving," Kei says, but he doesn't push Kuroo's arm off, settling for a glare down at the keyboard. His stomach knots, and a rush of desire, maybe to have Kuroo sitting in his lap, those lean thighs of his on either side of him, lips parted as Kei thrusts up into him, courses through him, quickening his pulse.

"Yeehaw," Kuroo says, voice choked with laughter, and Kei plays a discordant note in lieu of actually voicing his displeasure. He waits for, _expects_ , Kuroo to move in, to kiss his neck or slides a hand down his back, but instead, Kuroo just keeps laughing and pulls his arm back into his own space. "So what next? It would be cool if the first chorus introduced brass instruments, don’t you think? Then we can pare it down for the bridge and just have the percussion."

"Right." Kei licks his lips. "Maybe with layered vocals?" 

"Great minds think alike," agrees Kuroo, before reaching across Kei to start the looping music again, picking up the notebook with their half-scribbled lyrics, and starting to sing along to what they have so far.

They manage to lay down most of the instrumental in the next few hours. Kei rarely works with anyone when he makes music, but it’s obvious that Kuroo is used to being part of a team with the easy way he makes suggestions and always pauses to wait for opinions in the middle of explaining an idea. Kei wonders if all of Nekoma is like that. If that’s part of why Nekoma is known as the band without a solo act: none of the members having ever participated in the sort solo promotions that Ukai and the rest of management had handed each member of Karasuno whenever they started to feel stifled or antsy. Karasuno had been, is still in some ways, a good band, but Kei had always thought they worked so well together because of their individual skills being complementary, not because they’d been particularly good at actually working together. 

Rubbing at his eyes, Kei sighs, and Kuroo, who is staring down at the now messy notes of their lyrics with furrowed brows, looks up. "Tired?"

"We can’t finish this in one day, you know," Kei says, even as he changes the output on his keyboard and switches off the synthesizer. "I’ve got things to do."

"You promised me a song," Kuroo says, Kei catching only a hint of his concerned expression in his peripheral vision. "I fully intend to collect the entirety of it. So you’ll just have to keep coming over until we finish."

"No I don’t," Kei replies. He saves the project, watching the blue progress bar fill as Kuroo curves his back, dropping his shoulders forward. 

"You’re right." Kuroo bumps Kei’s shoulder with his own. "You never _have_ to do anything with me. We get enough of that at work, right?" Kei turns to look at him, taking in the flicker of disappointment at the corner of Kuroo’s mouth. "I like working with you on this, though, and I thought—"

"I just meant," Kei says, interrupting him, watching Kuroo’s face carefully, lingering too long on the flutter of Kuroo’s darker than black lashes over the golden brown of his eyes, "that I uploaded it to the Cloud, so we can work on it at my place, too. You’re not the only person with a studio."

"Oh," Kuroo says, and he visibly swallows, his tongue coming out to wet his lower lip as his mouth curls up like a pleased cat. "Do your dinosaur toys miss me already, four-eyes?"

Kei huffs, but it sounds too much like a chuckle for comfort. "They’re accurate _models_."

"I named the stegosaurus Hotaru, after you," Kuroo says, settling a hand on Kei’s knee. "Firefly, just like Kei. Since you wouldn’t tell me your names for them."

"They don’t have names," Kei says, running his thumb along the arm of his glasses. "Why the stegosaurus?"

"Dinosaurs with armor plates and big spikes on their backs," Kuroo replies. He tilts his head sideways. "Dangerous when protecting themselves, but _definitely_ herbivores." The hand on Kei’s knee squeezes. "Just like you."

"You think I’m an herbivore?" Sucking his teeth, Kei spins his chair sideways, knocking Kuroo’s hand off, and crosses his arms. His back twinges, tight from sitting all day, but he doesn’t wriggle to stretch it out, ignoring it so that he can more effectively glare at Kuroo. "Whatever gave you that impression?" 

"It’s more metaphorical," Kuroo replies, leaning back in his own chair. His thighs spread invitingly. "I know you like some kinds of meat."

"All your jokes are so bad." Kei’s throat is dry. 

"You should hear my pre-show pep talks." Kuroo smirks. "Unless you’d rather there’s something else you’d rather I do with my mouth?"

Kei makes an annoyed noise in the back of his throat, hooking his leg around Kuroo’s and dragging him close enough to grab at his thin, flimsy tank shirt and into a kiss. Kuroo is laughing into Kei’s mouth as he half-falls, half-climbs into his lap, knees slotting into place on either side of Kei’s hips as Kei lets his hand release Kuroo’s shirt and splay out on his chest. He can feel Kuroo’s heart beating rapidly under his palm, and the already warm studio, under Kuroo’s weight and the heavy press of his mouth, is unbearably hot. 

The chair creaks dangerously, and Kuroo pulls back, swollen lips and heavy eyes. "Breaking furniture might hurt," he says, carefully leaning back in and kissing the corner of Kei’s mouth. The chair squeaks again. "And as much as I’d like to take this to my bedroom, we both have early schedules tomorrow, right? You’ve got a variety filming, and I’ve got a music show appearance." Kei brings his hand up to touch where the corner of his mouth still tingles. Kuroo’s eyes seem to track the movement, and Kei is struck again by the slope of Kuroo’s nose, the sharp angle of his jaw, the fall of his hair across his forehead. "Snow’s supposed to start coming down really heavy in about forty minutes, and if you get stuck here, it could cause problems." Kuroo leans down again, this time kissing the tip of Kei’s nose, and Kei crosses his eyes to watch him pull away. "So I suppose I’ll have to take my joyride later."

"You’re so weird." Kei lets the hand at his mouth and the hand on Kuroo’s chest fall.

"It’s a fun kind of weird, though, right?" He gets up from Kei’s lap, leaning against the edge of his worktable, heel of his palm crumpling their lyrics. "Makes me popular with the ladies."

"I’m sure that comes in handy at work," Kei replies dryly, combing down his hair with his fingers. He still feels rumpled and flushed, like if anyone saw him right now, they’d know he’d just been kissed.

"And out of it." Kuroo laughs. "My last girlfriend only dated me because of my charming personality." Kuroo leers. "Although how good I was at eating her out probably helped." Then he cocks his hip out a little further. "I’ll show you sometime."

"You like women?" Kei picks up his cell phone. Sure enough, he’s got a text from Tadashi complaining about the snow, and another from Takeda telling him to stay home tonight in case. His thoughts, though, are on what Kuroo just said.

"Asks the man who just broke up with Nametsu Mai!" Kuroo wags his finger. "Don’t get jealous, four-eyes."

Kei stares at Kuroo, his phone heavy in his hand. "I’m definitely not jealous." He raises an eyebrow. "It’s not like you’re anything to me."

Kuroo’s gaze shutters. "Now, now, Tsukishima, I’m your newest co-writer." His smile is small, only tugging at the right side of his mouth. Reaching into the pocket of his sweatpants, he pulls out Kei’s car keys. "I think you’ll need these to get home."

He tosses them, and Kei catches them easily, snatching them out of the air before they can hit him in the chest. Something about Kuroo’s expression sits uneasy in his belly, and he loathes whatever it is that feels something like guilt prickling its way up into his chest like heartburn. It’s reminiscent of when he’s too sharp with Yachi, or takes out his annoyance about something unrelated on Tadashi. 

He stands up, tucking his phone away. "Thanks for getting my car," he says.

"Mmm," Kuroo says, as Kei walks around him and out of the studio and into the hall. Kuroo follows him through the living room and into the foyer, where Kei steps into his heavy boots, and watches quietly as Kei tightens the laces and ties them. "Drive safe, four-eyes."

"I will," Kei replies. He shrugs on his coat, the fur of the hood tickling his cheeks. He looks at Kuroo, who stands there, makeup-free, unassuming, kind, and sighs. "I guess we’re also friends," he says, after a long moment, and then, when Kuroo’s eyes widen, genuine surprise making his mouth slack, Kei gives him a small, tight, smile, and lets himself out of the apartment, closing the door behind him.

He gets a text from Kuroo right after he turns on his car, the engine purring to life as Kei turns the defroster on high to melt the snow on the back window. 

_knew you liked me,_ it says. _is weird your type?_

Kei doesn’t reply, but as he drives home, he thinks about how sitting in Kuroo’s studio, writing music, is the most comfortable he’s ever felt with someone new in a long, long time.

*


	2. Chapter 2

*

Approximately once a year, Kei is forced, along with another, funnier member of Karasuno or another Ukai Agency talent, to show his face on variety. With his single out and performing well on the charts, he’s not surprised when Ukai tells him he’ll be appearing on the December 28th episode of Groove Talk with Nishinoya. "You decided this weeks ago," Kei accuses him, and Ukai grins at him like a shark.

"Yeah," he says. "But I almost pulled you because the combination of you being forced to answer personal questions about Nametsu _and_ play humiliating games might have given you an aneurism." Ukai claps his hands decisively. "But now they’re going to tease you about your friendship with Kuroo and the new drama, since your fans are all obsessed over that, so I think you’ll survive."

"That’s what you think," Kei replies, but he’s mostly resigned to it, since variety’s just a part of the game, even if he sucks at it more than any of his other former bandmates. Kageyama had been as bad at the whole 'be cute and funny on command’ thing as Kei until Hinata had been signed and shuffled into their project team. Now, years later, those two morons are the darlings of talk show hosts, who seem to have no real concept of how fucking annoying it is to hear them bicker day and night.

Besides, he's not entirely sure what to make of the way people, _fans_ , are reacting to his so-called friendship with Kuroo, when he knows that the adoration is because they think Kuroo's easy physical affection with him is platonic. Every sly joke alluding to the 'couple-ness' of their interactions reminds Kei that acceptance is superficial, and of the speculations throughout the early part of his career that led to him dating Nametsu so publicly.

"It’s a panel show, at least," Takeda says, on their way out. "And you’ll have Nishinoya."

"Blessing or curse?" Kei mutters, but he honestly prefers Nishinoya to Sugawara for this, because Sugawara is surprisingly cold-blooded about revealing embarrassing things on television. He's also terribly crafty about it too. Kei is never quite able to stay mad at him afterwards, because he never actually lies.

Groove Talk has two hosts, two former labelmates of Kageyama's, named Kindaichi and Kunimi. Kei's always kind of liked them, because they're delightfully agressive with Kageyama, who treated them like crap before Kageyama's attitude had gotten him kicked out and sentenced Kei to ten plus years of his angry, scowling mug. Unfortunately , he isn't doing the show with actual standup comedy duo Kageyama and Hinata, so he won't be able to revel in Kageyama's misery and fade into the background. He's pretty sure that his tendency to observe and only very occasionally speak up to insult someone on these types of shows is why Ukai had paired him with Nishinoya, who never lets _anyone_ fade into the background on his watch.

"Tsukki! It's been forever!" Nishinoya says, sliding into the backseat of Takeda's van, elbowing Kei in the side as he reaches for his seatbelt buckle.

"I saw you yesterday," Kei replies, referring to another morning practice for their surprise New Year's performance. They've had a lot of them, leaving Kei too busy for much besides gym workouts, costume fittings for the drama, and his Ato advertisement shoots. He's shocked the dark circles under his eyes arent beyond the ability of concealer.

"I mean, since we've appeared on TV together! What kinds of games are we gonna get to try today?!" He shifts in his seat like he has to pee. "A food game? A guessing game?"

"Whatever it is, I'm sure it will be suitably embarrassing," Kei mutters, remembering the one time he’d appeared on Groove Talk a few years back and had been forced to hand-feed Kageyama fried foods as Tanaka did the same to Hinata on the other side of the set in a terrible eating contest that both of the two morons took too seriously. Kei’s hands had smelled like _takoyaki_ for days afterwards. 

"It’ll be fun, too!" Nishinoya pulls out his phone and immediately the sounds of robot battles fill the van. Kei puts on his headphones to block it out.

They’re the last of the day’s guests to arrive to the studio, even though it’s twenty minutes before call, and they’re ushered into make-up, Kei pushed into a chair right next to Haiba Arisa. 

"Tsukishima!" She seems, inexplicably, delighted to see him.

Kei bemusedly smiles back at her slightly as he spins his chair around to face the mirror. "I didn’t know you’d be on the show today," Kei says, taking off his glasses, folding them carefully and setting them on the desk. He pulls his personal hygiene bag out of his tote, digging around for his contact case and saline solution. 

"I’m a fill-in," she says. "Inuoka— sorry, that’s a member of Nekoma, you know? Right, so, Inuoka and my little brother Lev both got sick. It’s this weather! Anyway, Lev was supposed to be a guest today but one Haiba’s as good as another, right?" 

"Sure," Kei says, popping in his left contact.

"Oh, but they should have invited Kuroo, too! It would be more fun with all three of us, here! The whole cast!" Haiba’s long blond hair is pulled into two curly ponytails, and the curls bounce as she speaks. She’s cute in a way that makes him want to not be mean to her, so he doesn’t point out that there are at least five other cast regulars for _Rich Man, Poor Man_ , and just lets her ramble on. "Oh, and I’ve never been on this show before but it’s always easy to do variety with Kuroo!" She covers her mouth. "Not that it’s hard to do variety with you—"

"It is," Kei says, blinking to clear his eyes and fishing the right eye contact from the case. "Sorry."

"Well, we can only try our best!" She’s burbling, and she really is one of those happy little people. She and Nishinoya will get along just fine. 

Nishinoya shows up ten minutes later, as Kei is having stray hairs plucked from between his eyebrows by an extremely fussy make-up artist. "Tsukki, did you know _Haiba Arisa_ was gonna be here—" His eyes widen, and Kei swears they fill with stars as he sees Haiba sitting in the chair next to his having a layer of silver shimmer applied to her eyelids. "Ahh!"

She opens her eyes and smiles at him, her face lighting up with recognition. "You’re in Tsukishima’s band! Nishinoya right?"

"Yeah!" Nishinoya gives her a thumbs up, and then, when Haiba closes her eyes again to let the artist working on her continue, he leans into Kei’s space and whispers harshly. "Tsukki, how do you know all these super pretty girls, huh?!"

"We’re in a drama together," Kei says blandly, at normal volume, and Nishinoya blushes when Haiba turns to look at them again. "Don’t mind him," Kei tells her, and she beams at them both as Nishinoya yells something about being Kei’s older brother.

"You must be close," she says. "Ten years together, right? That’s almost as long as Nekoma!"

"We debuted the same year, even if thanks to company rivalry back then we never crossed paths." Nishinoya puffs his chest out. "Karasuno is still a band even if we don’t release albums together anymore."

"Then how are we still a band?" Kei asks, as one of the producers comes in to tell them filming will begin in five minutes. Nishinoya sputters, and Haiba laughs, causing Nishinoya to look even more besotted.

Kunimi and Kindaichi are both in fine form when they start filming, asking true or false questions about fan rumors concerning each guest randomly with no indication of whom they’ll ask next. 

"Tsukishima Kei!" Kindaichi frowns at him, mostly because, Kei thinks, Kindaichi is usually frowning, even when Kageyama _isn’t_ around. "True or false! Kageyama and the famous Yachi from Villager Three secretly dated five years ago!"

"False," Kei says, rolling his eyes, and Kunimi sighs like he’s slightly disappointed. "She has taste."

The audience laughs as Nishinoya punches Kei’s arm, and Kei shrugs unrepentantly because he and Kageyama have always played up their rivalry like this. Kindaichi looks pleased at the dig, but also strangely like he wants to ask a ton more questions.

"You and Hitoka are really good friends, right?" Kunimi asks, following up, and Kei nods, seeing no harm in giving out that information now. "Ahh, really? How long have you known each other?"

Then Nishinoya raises his hand like a grade-schooler. "Ooh, pick me!" When Kindaichi turns to look at him, he grins. "Yachi is really close with all four of the youngest members of Karasuno, since they all came in on the same audition!"

"That long ago?" Haiba Arisa asks. "We’re all getting old!" She looks horrified, and the audience laughs again. 

"Yup!" Nishinoya grins. "And Yachi taught Tsukki how to do his laundry when they were fifteen!" He launches into the story about how Kei and Tadashi had almost broken their dormitory’s washing machines and flooded the whole laundry room, and Kei breaks into protest that it’s because Nishinoya had shown them how to load the soap wrong, and the audience is in stitches by the time that Nishinoya and Kei’s bickering devolves into Kei pointing out that of course he needs more detergent to wash his clothes, because he’s a normal sized person, and Nishinoya loudly talking over him about how his compact size is a benefit in choreography.

"Well," says another guest on the program, an upcoming actor named Yahaba that’s signed under the same agency as the hosts and Oikawa Tooru, "it’s a good thing Hitoka was there to prevent tragedy?"

"She’s the first person to call when you’re in trouble!" Nishinoya grins. "But _I’m_ number one on Tsukishima’s speed-dial!" Then he laughs. "But only because I helped him pick out his new phone after he irresponsibly broke his!"

"I didn’t break it," Kei replies, automatically, not liking to lose tiny arguments with Nishinoya when Sawamura isn’t around to keep them from continuing like a hovering uncle. "Kuroo is the one—" He stops as soon as the word draws all attention back to him like he’s overripe fruit in a roomful of flies. 

"Which brings me to my next question!" Kunimi waves his flashcards. "Tsukishima Kei! True or false: You went to karaoke with Kuroo Tetsurou in your free time before Christmas!"

"True," Kei replies, begrudgingly, and the audience’s back row make this horrible chirping birds noise that must be some new form of laughter. 

"Ahh," Haiba says, suddenly. "They get along so well, Kuroo and Tsukishima! We haven’t started filming yet, but they were playing around a lot at the press conference."

Kei remembers, mostly, shoving Kuroo into the sinks and getting him off, and that makes his neck turn red enough for Nishinoya to notice.

"Ah!" Nishinoya yells. "Tsukki is embarrassed!" 

"The Ice Prince, playing around?" Another guest, a news anchor Kei recognizes from cable, asks. "No wonder the fans are so interested in their upcoming drama!"

More laughter, and Kei frustratedly rubs at the back of his neck. "Please look forward to it," he says, and Haiba pipes up in agreement, and then they’re all moving on, Kindaichi firing more true or false questions at guests as Kei tries to will himself to stop thinking about Kuroo. 

"You all right?" Nishinoya asks, when they cut for a break to change the stage. "You weren’t mean to anyone today during the second half of questions. Do I need to take you to a clinic?"

"No," Kei says, glaring down at Nishinoya without any heat. "I’m just tired."

"Don’t get sick," Nishinoya says immediately. "We have the New Year’s show." 

"I know," he replies. "Don’t worry."

"Hey, hey, hey, I’m not worried! Let me treat you to a meal after this, okay?"

"Only if the game _doesn’t_ involve food," Kei says ominously, and Nishinoya looks disgustingly excited about the prospect.

It does end up involving food, all the guests required to eat bizarre things blindfolded and guess the ingredients, and Kei’s mouth is on fire for the next forty-five minutes after they make him eat something with peppers so hot his lips go numb. 

After filming has wrapped, Kei ends up waiting with Haiba Arisa for Nishinoya to get a lot of egg yolk from his own guessing game out of his hair. She’s chattering on about how she’ll be doing a photoshoot with Nekoma later for their yearly calendar, and Kei mostly tunes her out until she says Kuroo’s name.

"Hmm?"

Haiba blinks up at him, doe-eyed, her heterochromatic irises strangely iridescent with the silver eyeshadow. "I was just saying Kuroo’s _always_ making friends with quiet people. You and Kenma both."

"He’s also friends with Bokuto," Kei points out, and she purses her lips. "I wouldn’t describe him as quiet."

"Bokuto’s an exception, I think! Bokuto’s best friend is also very quiet. You’ve probably met him, too. Akaashi?" She taps her lips as Kei summons up an image of Bokuto’s sarcastic, dark-haired teammate, who’d looked a step away from collaring Bokuto for expedience. Haiba hums and then continues: "I think Kuroo has a special talent at befriending quiet people!"

"Because he talks so much." Needling, teasing, asking, whining. 

Haiba shakes her head emphatically, though. "He doesn’t, usually, if other people are talkative! He just teases." Her hand falls, but her lips stay pursed. "I think he reads between the lines well, is all. Kenma is the member of Nekoma famous for reading people, but Kuroo is also very good at it. He knows what to say to get the reaction he wants. He’s the best at variety because of that, I think!"

Kei plucks at the neck of his sweater. "He’s talkative with me."

"Well, someone has to be!" Haiba’s teeth are straight and white when she smiles to soften her words. "But he’s probably not loud, with you. I think he likes that. Having people and places where he doesn’t have to be loud."

"No," Kei says, "he’s not." 

And then Nishinoya returns, blond streak wilted in his damp, messy hair, and they’re both being hustled off to Takeda’s van as Haiba is escorted off by her own manager, who seems to be lecturing her about something as they heads off in the opposite direction. 

Nishinoya ends up promising a rain check on the shared meal, and Kei goes home and falls face-first into his bed, sleeping off the morning’s work until he’s awoken by his phone ringing relentlessly from his pocket.

"What?" Kei groggily answers, and it’s Tadashi’s laugh on the other end of the line. 

"I’m bringing you dinner. We haven’t eaten together in weeks."

"Not hungry," Kei grumbles, mashing his face into the pillow.

"You will be as soon as you get up, don’t kid yourself, Tsukki."

"Fine, fine," Kei says. "Udon."

"I already ordered it," Tadashi replies. "Chicken. Wake up, okay?"

"Ugh," Kei says, but he rolls over onto his back and blinks to wet his contacts, wishing he’d taken them out before napping. "How long?"

"Ten minutes," Tadashi replies, hanging up and leaving Kei listening to the dial tone.

Tadashi tracks yesterday’s snow into Kei’s foyer when he arrives carrying two white takeaway bags in his hand. Kei’s stomach growls, and Tadashi laughs at him. "See? Told you."

"Whatever," Kei replies. 

Trailing Kei into the kitchen, Tadashi unpacks the udon as Kei sets out chopsticks and napkins and spoons for them to use. Tadashi is full of news about the new kids taken in at the last audition, and he talks about the youngest girl having a starry-eyed crush on Yachi as they sit down at the table to eat. 

"You know, I think she really just wants to be her," Tadashi muses, blowing on his noodles.

Kei scoffs. "Or actually date her," he says, thoughtlessly, still a little groggily, and when Tadashi is quiet, Kei lenses, his words catching up with him. "I mean, doesn’t everyone want to date Yachi?"

"You don’t," Tadashi replies, and Kei rubs at his left eye with the heel of his palm.

"I’ve dated enough national sweethearts." 

Tadashi sets down his chopsticks and picks up his spoon. "You didn’t want to date Nametsu Mai, either." 

Kei frowns. "I wouldn’t have dated her if I didn’t want to," he corrects. "There just weren’t feelings involved."

"On your side."

"That was the problem, wasn’t it?" Kei clenches his jaw, and Tadashi lets it go, returning his attention to his dinner.

A few moments later, Kei gets a text, phone buzzing against his thigh. He checks it, opening it when he sees the sender is K U R O O.

_how do I become number one on your speed-dial, ~ my friend~?_

Kei huffs, caught between irritated and amused, and Tadashi looks at him suspiciously, spoon hovering above his broth. "Who would text you?"

"No one important." Kei replies. _You don’t,_ he replies.

Kuroo’s response comes quickly. _icy,_ it says, along with an emoticon of a snowflake.

Still feeling Tadashi’s eyes on him, Kei sets his phone face down on the table, and picks up his chopsticks again.

"You’re lying," Tadashi says, finally dipping his spoon into his bowl. "About it being no one important." Kei stares at him, his pulse speeding up. "You were smiling."

Kei drops his gaze. "Something funny from filming today."

"If you say so," is Tadashi’s dubious reply, and Kei picks up a piece of chicken from his udon and eats it, chewing as he thinks. 

"It’s Kuroo Tetsurou," he says, when he’s swallowed. "We get along mostly. He says stupid things a lot. It makes me laugh."

"It’s funny," Tadashi says, dipping his spoon back into his udon bowl. "It usually takes people years to get to know you well enough to reply to text messages."

"I don’t like texting." Kei shrugs. "And. Well. Kuroo is good at…" Kei hesitates. "He’s good at people, I think."

Tadashi is studying him, and Kei stares defiantly back until Tadashi sighs. "He must be," Tadashi says, almost under his breath. Then he juts out his jaw. "I don’t like hearing about your life on the news."

"Hmm?"

"Like with Nametsu," Tadashi says. "Or this friendship with Kuroo." He pushes noodles around. "It’s weird, to know you so well but never know when things are happening in your life."

Kei licks the corner of his lips and tastes udon, but what he remembers is the feel of Kuroo’s lips there, soft and gentle. "You don’t know me as well as you think you do," Kei says.

Tadashi smiles, and his eyes don’t crinkle with it. Under the harsh fluorescents, his freckles are stark against his skin. "Maybe I don’t," Tadashi says, and Kei feels the finality of it settle on him, heavy and cold like the layers of snow on the sides of the street outside. 

*

The way Kei and Tadashi became friends went something like this:

Kei was six years old, and sitting alone in the back of the class. He was taller than the other children, and from the back, he could watch everyone and _speak_ to no one. 

Tadashi was the last of the new students to enter, tiptoeing in like he was afraid to make noise. His face was white as a ghost, and it made his freckles look like the ones Aki had drawn on Kei’s face once with marker when he’d dressed up like the scarecrow for a pre-school play. Tadashi sat next to him, and Kei wondered if he was going to try to talk. He didn’t. 

A few years later, they were in the same class again. They didn’t get seated next to each other this time. Tadashi was still quiet, only now Kei found it unsettling the way Tadashi watched the room like a bleeding rabbit surrounded by wolves. 

After a few weeks, Kei heard, then saw, a few of the other boys he didn’t recognize cornering Tadashi in the stairway during lunch, demanding he hand over his milk. "I already drank it," Tadashi said, softly. He looked like he was waiting to be hit.

Kei was only in the stairway at all because it was usually quiet, and his head hurt after sitting in the classroom with kids that yelled all the time, for everything. Kei was supposed yell too, probably, but he doesn’t. He was weird, preferring to listen to music or nothing at all, uninterested in games and friends, and that was fine, because he was also tall, so no one bugged him about it. 

Tadashi, though, wasn’t tall. He was small, and freckled, and always tiptoed like he was afraid to make noise. Kei wondered if maybe he _was_ afraid to make noise. Kei also wondered what it would be like for him if he weren’t the biggest boy in the class. 

"If you drank yours, go find me another one," said one of the three boys. Tadashi shook his head 'no'. Another boy laughed. They were older, Kei realized. Maybe fifth years. Kei was still taller. Sighing, he picked up his bag and walked down the stairs. 

They all looked up, and Tadashi’s eyes widened. "I-"

"Go away," Kei said to the boys, and they laughed more, like Kei couldn’t be serious. 

"You go away," one said. "There’s only one of you."

Kei pulled himself up to full height. "I’m not Yamaguchi," he said, calmly. "I’m the top student in fourth year. You can’t scare me."

They considered him, and one of them said: "Let’s just go, Kuroda."

"Fine," the loudest one replied, and he had a mean face. Kei pushed up his glasses, and waited. 

When they were gone, Tadashi looked up at him, wide-eyed and confused. "Thank you?" He said it so low that Kei barely caugt it. "For helping me."

"I come here because it’s quiet," Kei said. "They were loud." He studied Tadashi, who was looking at the door now, full of worry. "You can stay here until the bell."

"Is that okay?"

"Yes," Kei said, walking back up half the flight and sitting down. Tadashi trailed after him, timidly, and sat down a few steps below. He didn’t say anything, so Kei closed his eyes and thought about dance classes instead of the look in Tadashi’s eyes. 

The next day, as he was about to leave for lunch, he stopped in front of Tadashi’s desk, rapping his knuckles on the edge of it to get the occupant’s attention. "I’m going to lunch now," he said, and several of their classmates looked over at them in shock. "Let’s go."

"Me?" Tadashi looked around, frantically, but found no one else. When he returned his gaze to Kei, his eyes were round like 100 yen coins. "Are you—"

Kei sucked his teeth. "Grab your lunch, and we’ll eat on the roof." 

Tadashi nodded, and followed.

Tadashi ate like he did everything else. Taking up as little space as possible, eyes constantly flicking around. When lunch was over, he seemed at a loss about what to do until Kei pulled out his sciences text and started working on that night’s homework. Tadashi took out his English workbook, instead, and drew the bottom halves of his lowercase letters way too big. 

"I do this every day," Kei said, when the bell rang. "Unless it’s raining. If it’s raining, the stairs."

"Are you… inviting me?"

"You’re not annoying," Kei replied, clenching his fists as he remembered the way those three boys had cornered Tadashi. He hated people like that. "Up here, no one will bother you."

"Oh," Tadashi said, and it’s not like Kei had done anything great, but Tadashi was looking at him like he did. "Thanks again, Tsu-Tsuki…shima."

Kei snorted. "Whatever," he said, and they returned to class. A few of their classmates stared at them, but Kei had always been weird and Tadashi had always been quiet, and who really cared if they ate lunch together?

It became a habit, just like that. For weeks and weeks they took silent lunches, and finally, when the August heat set in, Kei turned to Tadashi and said, "you know you can talk, right?"

"What?" Tadashi’d gotten sunburned, pink stripes on his cheekbones and down the bridge of his nose.

"You don’t have to sit there in silence," Kei reiterated. "You don’t have to be…" _Afraid_ , he thought. Kei knows plenty of people find him intimadating, even if he’s only "You can talk. If you want."

"Oh!" Tadashi shifted, putting his hands on his knees. "It’s not… It’s just before, you said that you liked the quiet." 

"I don’t like yelling." Kei looked at Tadashi without fully turning his face. "You don’t yell."

"What should I talk about?" Tadashi asked, and Kei rubbed at his face.

"Anything," Kei said. "You can talk about anything, as long don’t ask me any questions."

"Okay," Tadashi said, and started telling a story.

*

" _So_ ," Tanaka says, slugging him in the arm, "why are you and Yamaguchi not over here laughing together? What did you do?"

"I didn’t do anything," Kei replies, checking his bowtie in the mirror. All of Karasuno is matching tonight, in navy and orange, just like they’d worn at their debut concert. They’d come inside in shifts, disguised, so that the fans waiting outside to enter the venue wouldn’t see them and guess what might be happening during the live show, but now they’ve gathered in one of the back rooms except for Tadashi, who’s out giving a pep-talk to his rookies, who are dancing back up for Yachi’s group tonight. 

"Well, we know Yamaguchi didn’t do anything." Tanaka snarls at him, and Kei catches the expression in the mirror. "And also you’re a dick. So. What happened?"

"I don’t know," says Kei. He looks away from the mirror, satisfied his bowtie is straight. "Maybe I’m just being my usual dick self."

"Can I have that on tape?" Hinata asks, loudly, and Kei narrows his eyes at him until he skitters back over toward Kageyama mumbling about Kei still being kinda intimidating or some other nonsense.

"Nah," Tanaka says. "Yamaguchi is totally immune to that! We all are, mostly." He pokes Kei’s cheek. "Hey, not-so-cute little brother, go fix things."

Kei sighs. "I definitely don’t miss this."

"You’re a liar, liar, pants on fire," Nishinoya singsongs, and Kei wonders if it’s even worth it to sneer in his direction. 

"Now, now, Tsukishima," Sugawara says, fixing his hair with careful fingers, "it’s our job to help you."

"I don’t _need_ help." 

Some of Kei’s exasperation must bleed into his voice, because Azumane clears his throat. "Let’s leave Tsukishima alone until after the show," he says. His bowtie is so crooked it looks like it’s been tied sideways, and Sawamura reaches up to fix it, pushing Azumane’s long hair behind his shoulders to get it out of the way. 

"Only if he doesn’t try to escape," Sawamura mutters, concentrating on Azumane’s tie.

Kageyama, who is the last one in the make-up chair, cuts his gaze over to Kei and then scowls.

Kei returns to look. "Something to say, your majesty?"

"It’s kinda hard to find people who will put up with you," he says, breaking their gaze to flick his eyes in Hinata’s direction before returning to Kei. "Don’t fuck it up."

"Giving me advice again?" Kei buffs his nails on his jacket. "Going to make a habit out of helping the peasants?"

"Never mind," Kageyama says, scowl deepening. "Forgot your glass house had foggy windows."

"What’s that supposed to mean?"

Kageyama’s response is interrupted by a knock on the door, and they all turn to look as the door cracks open. It’s Kuroo, hair styled and dressed in a pair of red slacks and a matching red blazer with no shirt underneath, eyes lined dark and lips curling up. 

"Sorry to interrupt—" He pauses, and looks around the room, counting the members. "Oh ho? A reunion? I wondered what four-eyes was doing in a room all the way in the back."

"Kuroo," Sugawara says, smiling. "Long time no see."

"I keep busy," Kuroo replies, and nods at Sawamura before his eyes fall back on Kei, his expression darkening slightly. "Hmm, been looking for you." 

"What for?" Kei crosses his arms across his chest, suddenly remembering his last real conversation with Kuroo had ended with Kei telling Kuroo they were _friends_. "Maybe I don’t want to be found."

Kuroo puts his hand on his heart. "I’m wounded, truly." Then he grins. "Put away that spiky tail of yours, Mister Stegosaurus."

Narrowing his eyes at Kuroo, Kei sighs. "What do you want?"

"To show you something," replies Kuroo. "C’mon." Kuroo extends his hand and curls his fingers down in a beckoning motion. 

Sugawara laughs, and Kei stares at Kuroo’s hand before sighing exaggeratedly. "Fine," he says, and grabs his phone off the table on his way to the door.

"He’s actually going?" Tanaka whispers to Nishinoya, and Kei shoots him a glare before shutting the door behind him, leaving himself and Kuroo alone in the hall.

"Well?" Kei leans against the hall wall, looking everywhere but at Kuroo. "What did you want to show me, then?"

Kuroo's laugh is low, and wicked. "This," he says, curling his palm along Kei's jaw, tilting his head and then kissing him. It's slow, hot, Kuroo's mouth aligned perfectly with his own even as Kuroo's tongue slides between his lips, careful so as not to smudge either of their makeup. 

Kei closes his eyes for a moment, allowing himself to get caught up in it, before he firmly pushes Kuroo away. "We're in _public_ ," he says, scowling as he tries to catch his breath.

"I've been wanting to kiss you for days," Kuroo replies. "I can't believe you called me your friend and then walked out before I could reply!"

"Because I knew you'd be embarrassing about it," Kei hisses, narrowing his eyes. "That's no excuse for being reckless."

"Is it really reckless?" Kuroo gestures to the empty hall. "Your whole group is in that room, and it's the only room on this hall. We'd hear anyone coming down the the main corridor, right?"

Kei bites his lip. "We might not," he says, and Kuroo presses a hand to the wall right beside Kei's face, trapping Kei against it with his whole body, even if they don't touch. Kuroo's mouth, pulled thin with an amused smirk, draws Kei's eyes, and when Kuroo notices, the smirk only grows. 

"Just admit it," Kuroo says, "you don't mind being kissed."

"It's certainly better than hearing you talk--" Kei starts, but Kuroo kisses him again, more harshly, lips crushing in on Kei's like he's desperately parched and Kei is fresh spring water. Kei reacts with equal want, because his body seems to echo Kuroo's even when Kei's brain still scrambles to catch up. 

"Mmm," Kuroo murmurs against his chin, his breath hot, "I don't think you don't really mind my my voice." He sucks Kei's lower lip into his mouth, and it can't taste like anything but gloss but Kuroo's teeth worry at it anyway. Kei grips the lapels of Kuroo's jacket, knuckles ghosting along the bare skin of his pectorals, the skin smooth and warm. Kei can feel Kuroo's heartbeat strong and steady as Kuroo sighs into Kei's mouth, his free hand coming to settle at Kei's waist with a familiarity Kei isn’t used to.

Kei has had plenty of one night stands with people who would never recognize him, and a fumbling attempt at a relationship with another rookie when he was seventeen that had been more awkward than passionate, but he’s never really had whatever it is he has with Kuroo, who has learned Kei’s mouth and just how he likes to be kissed, and whose hand seems to fit right above the curve of Kei’s hip with an ease that’s almost alarming. Kei lets himself rest more firmly against the wall as Kuroo presses into him more tightly, one leg sliding between Kei’s as he tilts his head to get in closer, and Kei pries one hand from Kuroo’s coat to slide up his chest and curl around the back of Kuroo’s neck, silky dark hair catching in his fingers as he holds Kuroo in place. 

The sound of footfalls has Kuroo pulling back quickly, and Kei pushes down the clawing urge to drag him back in. His lips feel sticky and cool, and his pulse is racing, like a drumming baseline at the edge of his throat and just as loud in his ears. 

From around the corner comes Tadashi, who still hasn’t gotten his makeup done and looks surprised to see them. He’s clutching a water bottle in his hand, and as he looks between Kei and Kuroo, his eyes narrow slightly and the corners of his mouth turn down. His freckles are stark against his skin under the washed out fluorescent lights, and there’s something _knowing_ in his eyes. “Am I interrupting something?”

“Yamaguchi,” Kei says, and his voice cracks slightly on the end of his best friend’s name as he realizes one hand is still outstretched in Kuroo’s direction, and he lets his hand fall down to his side. He forces himself to meet Tadashi’s gaze head on, but Tadashi avoids it, looking at a point just past Kei’s face. “Of course you aren’t.”

“Sorry, Kuroo, but the producer is coming in twenty minutes,” Tadashi says quietly, and he angles himself toward Kuroo, turning away from Kei completely. Kei feels slightly sick to his stomach, and he presses one palm against it as Kuroo shifts his weight and takes another step back to rest against the opposite wall. “Tsukki and I should warm up the rest of the band.”

“Then I will leave you to it,” Kuroo says, easily, sounding too cheerful in the odd tension that is thick enough to wade through in the hallway. “I’m sure Kenma is wondering where I wandered off to, anyway. I told him I’d only be a moment” He laughs, and a bit. “Nice to meet you, by the way, Yamaguchi.” He pushes off the wall and bows slightly, a perfunctory thing that barely passes for polite as Kuroo falls into his usual lazy posture. “Catch you later, Tsukishima.”

“Whatever,” Kei says, and Kuroo gives him a crooked grin, nodding to them both before slinking off down the hallway and disappearing around the corner.

“He seems nice,” Tadashi says, calmly. He’s still not meeting Kei’s gaze. “Too nice for you.”

“I thought you weren’t talking to me,” says Kei, when Kuroo’s footsteps have faded into nothing and his pulse has slowed. Tadashi finally lifts his head enough to look Kei in the eyes. 

“Your mouth is swollen,” Tadashi says. “And your lip gloss is smeared at the corners of your mouth. You might wanna wash it off entirely before you come back into the room or Suga will notice.”

Kei’s hand comes up to touch his mouth, and Tadashi’s frown becomes even more pronounced as he walks past Kei, continuing down the hall until he gets to the door leading to their dressing room. He hesitates outside the door, and looks back at Kei. He opens his mouth, lips parting as if to speak, but then he just sighs, and enters the dressing room right in time for a high screech from Hinata to escape through the cracked door, closing it behind him and leaving Kei out in the hallway alone. 

 

He heads to the bathroom to clean off his mouth, carefully patting his lips with cold water until they look less full, and then returns to the dressing room.

Karasuno is as rowdy as he'd left them, as rowdy as always, and usually, Kei would find his way to Tadashi's side, basking in the oasis of calm in the madness. But Tadashi's stalwartly refusing to look at him, and Kei's mouth still tingles as a reminder of of the expression of Tadashi's face out in the hall. 

"You ready to kick some ass, Tsukishima?" Nishinoya slaps him hard enough on the back to knock the breath out of him. "We gotta remind all these amateurs that just cause we've moved on to bigger and better stuff; we aren't fallen crows, after all!"

"Yeah!" Hinata cheers, as Kageyama looks constipated at the very idea that anything he's involved in might be less than excellent. 

This is the part where he exchanges a glance with Tadashi, and rolls his eyes. Instead, he just swallows around the lump in his throat, and looks to the side, at nothing. "Let's get this over with," he mutters, and Tanaka roars something about bad attitudes as Kei crosses the room, sits down on one of the chairs in the back, and watches the room descend once more into chaos. 

The crowd screams when they realize what's happening, and in the midst of a performance, it's easy to forget about Tadashi and Kuroo and all of that, letting himself get dragged back in to the comfortable feeling of being with the others on stage, pressure lower when he can split it with the clowns he calls his band. 

He sings his few lines and moves to the center of the choreography and it's easy and simple. This is the part he likes, after all. Performing. Dancing. Music. The part he hates has always been the interviews and the variety shows, and the paparazzi following him around like it matters what he does in his free time. This part, though, under stage lights with heavy bass in the background... This part is why he stayed an idol, even when it wasn't because he was looking up at his older brother and wanting to follow in his footsteps.

The roar of the audience, when they finish their small set, almost makes him smile, and he only covers it up because Takeda is prepared back stage with towels for them to dry their faces. Before Kei realizes it, they're all on stage for the midnight countdown. Nishinoya has Azumane in a headlock, and Sugawara has his hand covering his mouth to hide his evil laughter as he ignores Azumane's plea for help, leaning into Sawamura as the host starts counting down.

At the stroke of midnight, confetti explodes from above them, raining down and sticking to Kei's sweaty skin and no doubt catching in his hair. Members of various bands from competing entertainment agencies swarm around meeting and making New Years' greetings, and Kei tries his best to fade into the background. It's easy enough with people like Bokuto on stage, with his loud, boisterous voice and complete inability to see when he's being annoying. It takes a bit for Kei to notice that Bokuto's got a grip on Kuroo's arm, dragging him along laughing in his wake. They both laugh loudly as they make jokes with a few other members of Nekoma, or maybe _about_ a few other members of Nekoma, considering the outraged and embarrassed look on the loud mohawked one's face, complete with furtive glances in the direction of Kiyoko, the only member of her band at tonight's New Year's Countdown. 

"You know," says a voice from beside him, "I wouldn't think you were the type of person to befriend Kuroo."

Kei startles, and then scowls, hating his own reaction, as he takes in the dark-haired man suddenly beside him. Akaashi, Kei remembers, from the Osaka show. "I didn't. He's stubborn."

"I'll bet you can be even more stubborn," Akaashi says easily. "And yet, here you are."

"Over here, away from him, yes." Kei crosses his arms as the confetti cannon's above them spurt out more colored paper.

"You’re quiet, like me.” Akaashi rolls his eyes and points at Kuroo and Bokuto slumped into each other and giggling with his thumb. “It’s safer over here.”

“You're friends with Bokuto,” Kei rubs his hands up and down the sleeves of his blazer, catching sequins between his fingers. "What's so different?"

"I've had years to get used to Bokuto," Akaashi says. "He's hopeless without me at this point. It's cute."

Kei snorts. "If you say so."

"You, on the other hand," and now Akaashi is staring at him, eyes burning as Kei watches Kuroo rest and arm on Bokuto's shoulder, leaning in to whisper in his ear, "just met Kuroo recently, and he's already conned the famously reclusive Tsukishima Kei out in public."

"We're going to be filming together soon," Kei mutters. "Not like I can actually avoid him."

"Do you want to?" Akaashi's deadpan expression somehow screams amusement when Kei's head snaps down to meet his gaze. "You look like you're as confused about how you've befriended him as I am."

Kei _is_ confused. He'd gone over to Kuroo's apartment, that first time, expecting an awkward drink and then calling it a day, effort made. He hadn't expected tumbling into some sort of recurring sexual _thing_ with him. He'd expected the shared music compositions and teasing and texting even less. "I don't make friends."

"It's not all bad, you know," Akaashi says. "Kuroo likes to poke and prod and needle but he's also good at reading silences. You won't have to try very hard for him to understand you."

Kei licks his lips. "Are you an idol therapist?" He lifts his chin, gesturing to Kuroo and Bokuto, who are now curled in on each other, they're laughing so hard. It's the mohawk guy and Tanaka yelling at each other, now, and they're attracting the attention of other people on the stage. "Or did you want to know something?"

"Hmm," Akaashi huffs, in what for him probably passes as a belly laugh. His thick eyebrows draw together. "I suppose I wanted to know something. Mostly, I wanted to see why Kuroo was so interesting. Bokuto's been moping about Kuroo not paying him enough attention."

"Kuroo is perfectly welcome to leave me alone and go back to being the other half of dumb and dumber." Kei rubs at his cheek, grumbling as he pulls off a sweat-damp piece of confetti.

"You're pretty cute, huh?" Akaashi's eyebrows twitch slightly. "I think I figured it out. You're less mysterious than expected."

"Must be great, understanding people," Kei replies, before clenching his teeth together, wishing he hadn't said anything at all. Akaashi manages to look even more amused despite his facial expression not changing perceptively in any particular way. "Never mind."

"You could try asking." Kei twitches, surprised at Akaashi's reply. "I mean, you might have to drag that pole out of your--"

"Tsukki!" Nishinoya yells, across the stage, "why are you all the way over there?!"

"Lovely chatting with you," says Akaashi. Then he tilts his head. "You're rather accustomed to loud, huh?" 

"Unfortunately," Kei replies, before sighing, dropping his arms, and leaving Akaashi's scrutinizing gaze behind to go over to Nishinoya. 

When the broadcast is over, he goes up to the roof. He doesn't expect Tadashi to be there, even if it's tradition, but he is, leaning on the rail like they're aimless high schoolers and he’d said more than ten words to Kei today at all. 

"You came," Tadashi says. "Didn't expect that, but I don't know why. You'd have to _care_ to be shaken out of your routine." Kei flinches, and Tadashi exhales heavily. "Sorry, I don't mean that."

"About earlier." _"You could try asking"_ , Akaashi'd said, like it was something simple. Kei doesn't ask about things. Kei doesn't _invest_ in most things, most people, enough to have to. "You’re angry."

"Yeah," he replies. "I’m just… I’m frustrated."

"About what?" Kei clenches his hands into fists. "You've been angry at me for days." Kei's nails bite into the skin. "Is it about--" Kei, unexpectedly anxious, can't bring himself to make the rest of the question.

Tadashi sighs. "Don’t be…" Tadashi swallows. "Don’t think this is about me catching you kissing a guy, Tsukki. I’ve pretty much known you prefer men since we were like fifteen, but I figured you didn’t want to talk about it."

Kei's heart skips a beat, and then thuds doubletime in his chest. He’s never told anyone he didn’t want to _sleep_ with, and even that number is small, because Kei is famous and he’s not stupid.

"How long have you been seeing him?" Whatever Kei was about to say is lost in the face of Tadashi's question. "Kuroo Tetsurou. How long have you been seeing him?"

"I'm not," Kei replies immediately, and Tadashi's face crumbles in this way that Kei's never quite seen before, and panic is bitter at the back of his throat. 

"Okay," says Tadashi. "Whatever, Tsukki."

"What, exactly, do you want from me?" 

"I want to stop finding out about your life on the _news_." Tadashi wrinkles his nose, looking so much like his thirteen-year-old self that Kei wants to go intimidate some bullies or something, so he can feel thirteen too. They didn’t have problems communicating, then. "Nametsu. Kuroo. You have relationships with these people I don’t get, and… It's like my best friend is a stranger, sometimes."

"This is how I am. How I’ve always been." Kei presses his lips into a thin line, looking out across the city. It’s lit up bright as people celebrate the new year. They’ve got a better view than they do from the Ukai Agency roof, this high off the ground. "You’ve never needed me to change before."

"Your walls weren’t so tall before," Tadashi says. "I could still see over them enough that I was sure it was you behind them. Feels like as the years pass, though, you just keep adding more bricks. I used to be able to know what you were thinking like _that_." He snaps his fingers. 

And, well, Kei remembers their first year of junior high, sitting on the roof at school, back before Kei had media girlfriends or fansites or any of that. He remembers Tadashi standing at the railing, looking out on the courtyard the same way he's looking out on the city now. 

"Wouldn’t it be cool, to be a firefighter?" Tadashi had asked once.

Kei vividly recalls that he had wrapped his arms, longer lately, around his knees. "I’m going to be an idol."

Tadashi had looked at him curiously, round-faced and confused. "Like… singing and dancing and stuff?"

"Yes," Kei had replied. His feet had looked huge, in his school shoes. His father had been telling him lately that it meant Kei would be tall, like Aki, like Kei didn’t already know that. Like Kei wasn't already by far the tallest in his year.

"Why?" Tadashi hadn’t seemed all that much like he was judging Kei. "Do you like singing and dancing?"

Kei had. He liked his piano classes after classes let out better than anything he did during the school day, and he loved watching the breakdancers who’d stolen half of the children’s playground a few blocks down from their houses, teaching himself how to stretch the way they did before routines. "Yes." Kei had hesitated. "My brother’s going to be an idol, too."

"Really?" Tadashi had whistled. "Is that why he doesn’t live with you? Because he’s going to be an idol?"

"He lives in a dormitory in Tokyo." Kei’s scratched his feet on the ground. "He’s always calling home to talk about how well his choreography classes are going."

"Hey, Tsukki?" Tadashi is packing away his bento, and even though he’s not looking at Kei, he’s smiling mischievously. 

"What?" Kei asks suspiciously. 

"You know idols are social, right?"

Kei had snorted. "Not all of them," he’d said, thinking of Aki telling him about a quiet boy in their audition group who everyone was sure was destined to be a star. He’s like you, Aki had said. Grumpy.

"So you have to audition?" Tadashi had looked up then. "When?"

"Next month," he’d said. "I’ll have to take the train to Tokyo." Kei had been nervous, wondering what he’d even have to prepare, for something like that. The paperwork is still in his maths book, hidden away until he figured out how to make his parents sign it.

Tadashi had folded his hands behind his head, then, and flopped back down onto his back, to stare up at the clouds. "Maybe I’ll try out too," he says, and Kei had raised an eyebrow at him with all the sardonic disbelief a thirteen-year-old could muster. "Don’t look at me like that. I’m just thinking you might like some company." Tadashi’d grinned. "I know you, Tsukki. You’re definitely nervous."

"You don’t know me that well," Kei had said, kicking Tadashi’s shin.

"Yes I do," Tadashi’d replied, and he’d been so confident Kei’d decided to believe him, since that Tadashi had never been confident about much.

But now, Kei has somehow managed to push away one of the few people he’s allowed himself to rely on. Tadashi had known him, and followed him here, and Kei...

Kei weighs it all in his mind, and know that in the scheme of things, his side of the scale has always been lighter, because he’s always been willing to give less. Maybe, Kei thinks, it’s actually that he’s never understood why he has to give more.

It’s clear, though, that he does, and Kei might not get much about how other people work, but he’s perfectly aware his friendship with Tadashi is as close as he’ll ever get to that comprehension other people take for granted.

“Yamaguchi.” 

Tadashi’s grip on the railing tightens. 

"I'm really not seeing him." He leans on the railing next to Tadashi. It's cold, icy chill seeping immediately through his jacket. "Kuroo. I'm not... seeing him. It's not... there are no..." Kei grasps for words. " _Feelings_. It's just. You know. Sex."

Tadashi, probably not expecting Kei to say anything, gapes at him, and Kei, unbearably, feels himself start to blush. 

“I don’t…” He hunches his shoulders, maybe because of the wind or maybe because he’s embarrassed. He’s not actually sure he’d admit to the latter. “I don’t like talking about this. But.” He narrows his eyes at Tadashi, who has managed to close his mouth. “There were… a lot of rumors about me, two or three years ago. About how I don’t date. Speculation about my sexuality.” Kei shrugs. “Nametsu wanted a fake relationship for her own purposes. I agreed for mine. It was fine until it wasn’t.”

“She wanted to date you for real, you said.” Tadashi presses his lips together. “But you’re…”

“Gay,” Kei replies, bluntly. “But apparently you knew that.”

“Yeah,” Tadashi says. “Or, well, I was pretty sure, at least. Especially when you had that huge crush on Kageyama.”

Kei makes a horrible aborted croaking noise that he will deny if Tadashi ever tries to bring it up again, and chokes on his own spit. “No,” he says, loudly enough that it sings across the roof. “I _never_ \--“

“You totally did,” Tadashi replies, and for the first time tonight he smiles at Kei, his eyes bright. “You can deny it if you want but when you were fourteen you went out of your way to get his attention all the time.”

“Because he was arrogant,” Kei says. “I wanted to put him in his place.”

“Is that code for make out with him?” Tadashi shoves his hands into his pockets. “Do you want to put Kuroo in his place, too?”

“That’s…” Kei flounders. “This is why I don’t want to talk about things.” His phone buzzes in his pocket, and he fishes it out, sucking his lower lip into his mouth when he sees it’s from Kuroo. 

_where are u?_ it says, and Kei’s thumb hovers over the keyboard for a few moments before he types a reply of _None of your business._

“Kuroo?” Tadashi asks, and Kei looks up to see that Tadashi’s face is relaxed, his skin less pale even though his lips are turning slightly blue from the cold. 

“Annoying bastard,” Kei says, instead of saying yes.

“You reply to his texts. You hate replying to texts.”

“If I don’t reply he just keeps sending them.” Kei puts his phone away, ignoring the second vibration, realizing he’s under Tadashi’s scrutiny. “So.”

“Are you sure…” Tadashi’s eyes are closed halfway, and he’s peering up at Kei. “Never mind.”

“You might as well finish the thought,” Kei says. “Since we’re having a _heart-to-heart_.”

“It’s just… you reply to his texts, and let him into your personal space. You even went out to karaoke with him—“

“That was planned, for publicity,” Kei says, even though it’s half-lie. “I went out with Nametsu all the time, remember?”

“Sure,” Tadashi agrees. “But you weren’t sleeping with her.” He hesitates. “Were you?”

“No,” Kei hisses. “Get to the point.”

“The point is, you’re voluntarily spending time and energy on someone that isn’t me or Yachi or one of our bandmates, and…” Tadashi swallows. “And because of it, you’re happier.”

“Not really,” Kei replies.

“Yes, really,” says Tadashi. “You’re not bouncing around like Hinata or anything—that would be scary, and I’d be _worried_ about you, in that case—but you’re… I don’t know. It was just obvious to me that something was different, and the only things that have happened are your breakup with Nametsu and meeting Kuroo, and you’re certainly not happy about the mess with Nametsu.”

Kei shifts his weight, instinctively looking over his shoulder at the stairs leading back inside, wondering if it’s too late to escape. “What are you trying to tell me?” 

“I’m just wondering if you’re sure there are no feelings involved,” Tadashi says, finally, and Kei thinks about the press of Kuroo’s thigh against his own as he scribbles lyrics into a shared notebook.

“Yes, I’m sure,” he says, and Tadashi raises both eyebrows as Kei’s phone vibrates again.

“You should reply,” Tadashi says.

Kei runs his tongue along his teeth. “Are you still frustrated?” He shivers as wind cuts through the material of his costume jacket. “Because I’m not going to start suddenly coming to you with all my problems. It’s not who I am.”

“I know,” Tadashi says. “Just… don’t shut me out completely, and it’s fine. I’m not expecting you to suddenly have social skills.”

“You weren’t this opinionated when we were kids.” Kei shivers again, and Tadashi pushes away from the railing with his own shiver.

“I didn’t have the luxury,” Tadashi replies. “Now I do.” He smiles, resembling a human popsicle. “It’s thanks to you, Tsukki.”

 _I wouldn’t be here without you, either,_ gets stuck in Kei’s throat, but it’s fine, really, Kei decides, as he gestures toward the stairs, expecting Tadashi to follow. He’s been emotional enough for the next _year_ of his life tonight, and it’s too cold on the roof to keep talking.

He checks his phone when they get inside. _come over?_ the first new text says. _I’ll make it worth your while,_ says the second.

*

It’s three in the morning when Kei knocks on Kuroo’s door, dressed in sweatpants but still unshowered, his eyes dry from his contacts and his hair still stiff with spray. 

Kuroo answers the door thirty seconds after Kei buzzes the bell. He’s damp, water collecting in the grooves of his collarbones and down his flat abs. His pajama bottoms are slung low, revealing the sharp angle of his pelvic bones, and Kei’s reminded all over again, watching the slow curl of Kuroo’s lips, that Kuroo Tetsurou is an idol sex symbol because he’s all charisma and smolder. 

“I didn’t think you were coming,” Kuroo says, moving aside to let Kei in. “You didn’t reply to my texts.”

“I hate replying to texts.” Kei slips out of his shoes, tugging on the zipper of his coat at the same time. “I’ve told you that.”

“Mmm,” Kuroo replies, and then adds, in new, soft voice Kei doesn’t recognize: “I’m sorry, for before.”

Kei swallows. “It’s not like you made me do anything. I’m a big boy, thanks.” He expects Kuroo to wiggle his eyebrows lasciviously, but Kuroo doesn’t.

Instead, he runs a hand through his messy wet hair and sighs. “Everything okay with Yamaguchi?”

Kei watches the dark strands of Kuroo’s hair fall back across his forehead, like liquid silk. “Does it matter?”

“You looked upset.” Kuroo straightens out the curl of his back, and steps closer to Kei, pushing his hands up Kei’s chest from his belly, material of Kei’s T-shirt dragging up with them. He stops at Kei’s shoulders, sliding his puffy coat off to hang in the crooks of Kei’s elbows. “I didn’t realize your best friend didn’t know about your preference.” Kuroo runs his palms back up Kei’s arms. “Or maybe just not about me?”

“I don’t talk much about the things I do in private,” Kei answers, his voice sounding hoarser than he’d prefer as Kuroo’s fingertips brush the sensitive skin along the edge of his shirt collar. 

“I resent being called a thing,” Kuroo says, and walking the fingers of his left hand teasingly up Kei’s neck. “It’s not very nice.”

“I’m not very nice,” replies Kei. “Don’t you know that, yet?”

Kuroo cups his cheek, and looks into his eyes for a moment, before his smile sinks into something more predatory. “You’re not upset anymore, though.”

Kei wonders how Kuroo can possibly tell something like that from a single look, but he pushes the thought aside. “I thought you told me you were going to make me coming here worth my while?”

“Did I?” Kuroo’s thumb follows the ridge of Kei’s cheekbone, and heat blossoms in Kei’s belly. “Well, I suppose I don’t want to be a liar,” he murmurs, and he pulls Kei in to kiss him. Like in the hallway earlier, he’s insistent, his mouth hot and wet and eager, and it would be _Kei_ who was lying if he didn’t admit he was just as eager, parting his lips for more the moment he felt the pressure of Kuroo’s mouth against his. Kuroo tastes faintly of rum and soda, a lingering burn, and Kei slides tongue along his teeth until the taste is gone.

He clutches at Kuroo’s waist to keep his balance as Kuroo pulls him up from the foyer and into the living room, never stopping his exploration of Kei’s mouth. Kei’s nails dig into the bare skin of Kuroo’s sides, drawing a low hiss, and in response, Kei digs them in harder until Kuroo bites Kei’s upper lip in retaliation. 

“You’re so mean,” Kuroo murmurs, against the corner of Kei’s lips, and Kei snorts, sliding his hands down the back of Kuroo’s pajama pants to grab his ass. “I’m into it.”

“Weirdo,” replies Kei, allowing his coat to finally fall to the floor. It’s hot in Kuroo’s apartment tonight, but Kei would be flushed anyway, the heat of Kuroo’s touch enough to set him alight inside.

“Maybe,” Kuroo agrees, separating himself from Kei long enough to rid him of his shirt. Kei feels his makeup smear across the fabric, and cringes, but then Kuroo is kissing him again, and it’s forgotten in long sweeps of Kuroo’s tongue along the roof of his mouth, and hands along his bare chest.

Impatient, Kei pushes Kuroo back toward his bedroom, the both of them stumbling as Kei pushes down on Kuroo’s pajamas, baring his cock. It’s mostly hair, half-full and curving up toward his belly as it swells, and Kei sinks down to his knees before Kuroo even reaches the bed, his knees thumping loudly against the wooden floor as Kei bites at the skin of Kuroo’s belly, leaving an impression of his teeth to the left of his belly button. 

“Stegosauruses don’t eat meat,” Kuroo says, and Kei sneers up at him, watching the way Kuroo’s eyes catch the light as he sinks down to the bed, spreading his thighs to leave space for Kei between them. 

Kei takes advantage, setting his hands on Kuroo’s thighs, dragging his teeth up the inside of Kuroo’s thigh and biting down just to see if Kuroo will hiss again. He does, one hand finding its way into Kei’s hair and tugging as Kei licks at the new teeth marks. 

“You like it when it hurts,” Kei says, letting his lips brush the base of Kuroo’s cock, and Kuroo shudders, his neck red as he looks down at Kei with liquid gold eyes, lips parted and sticky from Kei’s mouth. 

Kuroo’s hand, the one not in Kei’s hair, wipes just under Kei’s eye, coming away with a smudge of black eyeliner, and he smirks. “What’s pleasure without a little pain?” 

Desire coils in Kei’s belly, as he slowly licks up the underside of Kuroo’s cock, blowing on the wet skin when he exhales, and Kuroo’s breath catches. Kei digs his fingers into the marks left by his teeth, watching as Kuroo’s lids flutter at the pressure of it, his fingers tightening in the strands of Kei’s bleached hair. Kuroo’s cock is fully hard, now, and Kei feels an answering hardness in his own, pushing against his underwear. 

Scratching up Kuroo’s thigh, Kei takes the tip of his cock into his mouth, lapping at the slit as he curls his fingers in, nails cutting into skin at the crease where thigh meets pelvis, and Kuroo’s hips bounce, the bed creaking as Kuroo thrusts into Kei’s mouth. Kuroo’s cock gags him, but Kei swallows around it, making sure his nails keep pressing in, and when Kuroo moans he drags his mouth away. He watches as a bead of precome leaks from the tip, then returns his gaze to Kuroo’s face.

Kuroo is red, and he’s biting down on his lip hard enough the skin’s turned white. Testing, Kei wraps one hand around the base of Kuroo’s cock as he claws down the inside of Kuroo’s thigh with the other, down from the indents that have almost broken skin. This time, he earns a choked moan, and the heat in his stomach is something more like lava as he watches Kuroo’s hips involuntarily lift from the bed again, and the lines where his nails have scratched turn pink against the pale, untanned skin.

Kei wonders if there’s something to be surmised about the way Kuroo responds to the sharpness of his nails the same way he responds to all the sharp angles of Kei’s personality, but he lets the thought escape as he sucks Kuroo off in earnest, letting his lower teeth drag along Kuroo’s cock in all the ways previous blowjobs have taught him not to, relishing the way Kuroo, who is always smirking, always teasing, comes apart with Kei between his thighs, one hand tangled in navy bedsheets as the other tries not to rip out Kei’s hair. Kei leaves lines and teeth marks along the expanse of both of Kuroo’s thighs and lower belly, careful to avoid leaving marks where they might show above the waist of the low-slung slacks Nekoma’s costume designer seems to like dressing him in. 

“Are you going to eat me alive, Tsukki?” Kuroo asks him, breathless, and Kei hums around Kuroo’s cock before moving back so it slips from his mouth. 

“Don’t call me that,” Kei replies, voice hoarse. 

“Gonna punish me if I don’t-- _Fuck_.” He takes a heaving breath as Kei drags his nails just a little too hard up the side of his cock.

“It’s not punishment if you like it,” Kei returns blandly, pretending that there isn’t anything satisfying about the way Kuroo looks like this, cock swollen and nail marks on skin and lip bleeding where he’s bitten through, and just takes Kuroo back into his mouth. 

Kei notes the moment the muscles in Kuroo’s thighs tense, pulling off of his cock just in time as Kuroo lets out a keening noise and comes, come splattering across Kei’s face and chest as Kei works him through orgasm.

When Kuroo’s caught his breath, he looks down at Kei, his eyes bright. “You like that too,” he says. “Making it hurt.”

Kei shrugs, all too aware of just how hard he is, and how much he’s aching to be touched. He thinks he likes having power over Kuroo more than the marks, but he doesn’t mind them, enjoying the way it’s Kuroo who can’t seem to speak without gasping for once. It’s more that he likes _Kuroo_ , but before that jarring thought can sink in, Kuroo is leaning forward and kissing him, knocking him backwards as their teeth bump, and Kei’s back hits the wooden floor painfully, one arm hitting the nightstand and knocking something down. 

“What—“ Kei curls a hand around the nape of Kuroo’s neck as Kuroo licks at his chin. 

“You spilled my drink,” Kuroo says. “How wasteful, Tsukishima.”

“You’re the one shoving me around,” Kei replies, lifting his hips as Kuroo tugs on his sweatpants, taking them and Kei’s underwear off in one long pull. Kei kicks them off as Kuroo hovers above him, almost straddling him. 

“You mind?” Kuroo asks, and Kei gulps at the intent look on Kuroo’s face. He always watches Kei so carefully, like he’s making sure he doesn’t take a single step out of line, and maybe, Kei thinks, that’s why it’s so easy for Kei to keep falling back into this with Kuroo even though he’d meant for any of this never to be more than a one-night-stand, to get Kuroo out of his system.

“I guess not,” Kei says, voice cracking at the end of it when Kuroo starts to touch him. He knows he won’t last long, when he’s this keyed up, his body moving into the skimming touches of Kuroo’s fingertips. 

Suddenly there’s a shock of something cold at his jugular, along with the smell of rum. “What are you…”

Kuroo chuckles, and it’s ice, Kei realizes, as Kuroo drags one of the cubes that must have been in his drink down Kei’s neck to his chest, lingering at his nipples. Kei whines as the shocking cold circles his left nipple, and then again as Kuroo follows it up with his tongue, moving the ice to the right nipple and short-circuiting Kei’s brain.

“You just looked like you needed to cool off,” Kuroo says, and Kei means to reply, really, but then the ice is freezing cold, sliding along the hot skin to stop just under his navel, and he gasps instead. “Fuck, you’re so pretty.”

Kei tries to even out his breaths as the ice, along with Kuroo’s warm fingertips, dip lower, into the groove of his left pelvic bone, and he tenses his thighs as he forces his eyes open. “You talk too much.”

“You know,” Kuroo says, smile stretching across his face like a smug cat, his eyes locked on Kei’s face as the ice nears his cock, “this ice is melting awfully fast on the skin of an ice prince.”

Kei makes an irritated noise in the back of his throat, and Kuroo laughs at him, right as the ice drags down again, bypassing Kei’s cock to slide between his ass cheeks. “Annoying.”

“Am I?” Kuroo pushes, and Kei shivers at the feeling of the ice at his rim, wondering if Kuroo is going to push it into him. 

“ _Yes_ ,” Kei manages, and Kuroo leans down to kiss him as moves the ice up again, to press behind his balls, and presses the tip of his finger to the cool skin of Kei’s rim. “All you do is _talk_ \--“

“I want to make you beg again,” Kuroo says, then, his breath as hot as the ice is cold. “I want to make _you_ talk, because I adore the way you sound when you’re about to come.”

Kei loathes the way Kuroo’s words just make him hotter, make him want Kuroo more. “I fucking _hate_ you,” he says, lifting his head to slam their mouths together again, as Kuroo starts to laugh. 

And then Kuroo’s hand, the ice still in his palm, wraps around Kei’s cock, and it’s hot and cold all at once, slippery chill and heated friction, Kei’s hips jerking up for more as Kuroo drags his mouth down Kei’s neck, sucking marks he knows better than to leave into the skin of Kei’s neck as the long, pretty fingers of his right hand press down on Kei’s belly. The floor is hard under Kei’s back, his tailbone digging into wood, but Kei doesn’t care, because Kuroo is just as hard above him, all lean muscle and intent, and Kei’s toes curl when Kuroo lets go of his dick in order to grip them both together, jerking them off at the same time. 

Kei cries out as he comes, the pressure and the chill of the ice and Kuroo’s cock against his own too much to handle all at once, and Kuroo doesn’t stop, continuing to stroke them both until he himself is coming, Kei trembling with overstimulation as Kuroo comes on his belly and chest this time.

“I think,” Kuroo pants, as he holds himself up with one trembling arm over Kei, “that I’ve ruined your makeup.” He takes a come-sticky hand and brings it to Kei’s face, to touch the already dried release that must streak across Kei’s cheeks. “Don’t worry, I’m an artist.”

“Do you ever stop making terrible jokes?” Kei asks, raspy and spent, not sure if he has the energy to inject more disdain as Kuroo sits down on his thighs, taking pressure off of his arm. 

“No,” Kuroo replies. “Kenma says it’s my curse, but Bokuto is pretty sure it’s my best quality. I feel like I’m getting mixed messages.” His hand has trailed down to Kei’s neck, now, fingertips prodding at spots Kei is sure he’s left marks. Kei’s gaze drops to the red and scratched length of Kuroo’s lean thighs, and shivers. “Everything turned out okay with your friend Yamaguchi, right?”

Kei closes his eyes, feeling his contacts shift, dry, against his eyeballs, and exhales. _Are you sure there are no feelings involved?_ Tadashi had asked, and Kei licks at his dry, swollen lips before opening his eyes again to meet Kuroo’s intent gaze.

“It’s fine,” he says. “It’s not a big deal if he knows about this.” Kuroo scans his face, looking for something, and he must find it, because he grins, open and honest and not teasing at all. Kei’s heart throbs in his chest, and he almost brings a hand up to press down on it, because it hurts.

“Aww,” Kuroo says, “and here I was thinking you wanted to keep me your dirty little secret, four-eyes.” He narrows his eyes. “Although you’re not exactly a four-eyes right now.” He tilts his head, then, and there’s the teasing curl of his mouth. “It’s easier to see your expression, without. Is that why you prefer the glasses?”

Kei averts his gaze to the spilled drink next to them, the rum and soda creeping across the wooden floor. “I don’t like not being able to see when other people can still see me, either.”

“Hmm,” Kuroo hums thoughtfully, and he doesn’t press it, doesn’t tell Kei that’s what standing on stage is _all about_ , instead tiptoeing his fingers down Kei’s chest to the streaks of their combined come that are quickly drying there. “I made a mess of you tonight, didn’t I? Was it worth your while?”

Kei bites back an immediate _yes_ , instead glaring at the spilled drink. “The floor isn’t exactly comfortable.”

“True,” Kuroo says, and then he’s getting off of Kei. Kei looks up to see Kuroo holding out a hand for him to take. Kei grasps it, letting Kuroo pull him up effortlessly, immediately wrapping an arm around Kei’s waist and bringing him in for a kiss. “I guess I could always try again.”

*

“How was your New Year’s?” Yachi asks, when Kei’s at the agency three days later. She’s dressed up, in high heels that give her a few extra centimeters and a cute dress in bubblegum pink.

“Nothing to write home about,” Kei replies, his hand unconsciously drifting up to where makeup is covering the last remnants of the bruises on his neck.

*

Kei and Kuroo are photographed by the celebrity tabloids three times in January, out getting lunch or shopping or doing normal mundane things that aren’t exciting to anyone, or worth reporting on. 

“Ukai wants you to spend more time with Kuroo,” Takeda says to Kei one day in early February, when they’re in one of the company vans, headed for a shoot. Kei’s been, inexplicably, picked up for a few new brands, and with that comes longer days and CFs. 

Kei spends plenty of time with Kuroo Tetsurou. He finds Kuroo Tetsurou at the door of his apartment at least once a week, these days, carrying a guitar or a duffle bag and camping out in Kei’s tiny studio room, making himself at home with all the tiny things he leaves scattered about. 

He’s left some of his clothes in Kei’s bottom dresser drawer and he’s got some special shampoo he uses that had been new a few weeks ago but is now nearing half empty, and this morning Kei had woken up to find, upon a cursory glance of the shelves above his bed, that mixed in with all his dinosaur figurines was a small black cat gatcha toy from the Harajuku street-side toy vending machines, with a tiny Nekoma symbol on the hidden bottom when Kei picked it up to examine it. It had only been when Kei reluctantly set it back down that he realized Kuroo had left it right next to the stegosaurus, and he’d choked on his own spit for a few moments before disgruntledly going to take a shower.

Kei had confronted him about it just that previous weekend, throwing it down onto the bed next to Kuroo, who sprawled languid and naked across Kei’s favorite sheets.

No, Kei thinks he’s been spending _plenty_ of time with Kuroo Tetsurou, thanks.

“You don’t dislike doing that, right?” Takeda smiles, not looking away from the road. “Spending time with Kuroo.” Takeda chuckles. “If Ukai had known how well you’d get along with a Nekomata artist, he would have convinced his grandfather to bury the hatchet years ago.”

“He’s amusing,” Kei says, in the expectant silence, knowing Takeda is waiting for him to say, well, anything at all. “Everyone’s making a big deal about this.”

“You’ve always kept to yourself.” Takeda rubs his thumbs along the steering wheel. “A lone samurai. I know some of the boys—“ Sugawara, Kei thinks, and Sawamura. They’re thirty years old. Maybe too old to be considered boys. “—Worried you might be lonely.”

“I’m not,” Kei says, closing his eyes. “I’m not like you, or Sugawara, or Hinata. I don’t need to spend a ton of time with other people to feel _fulfilled_.” His lips curl in disdain at even the idea. “I perfectly happy spending most of my time by myself.”

“But you look happier now that you’re friends with Kuroo,” replies Takeda, firmly. He stops at a traffic light, and turns to look at Kei with those shiny, bright eyes. 

“That’s…” Because it’s Kuroo, not because he’s done something wholesome like ‘make a friend’. It’s not that he was lacking some human connection and Kuroo satisfied the requirement. Kuroo likes music and doesn’t require Kei to spell things out. He’s annoying, but he’s also clever, and never pushes so far that Kei pushes back. It’s comfortable even as it’s new, and Kei can admit that he prefers Kuroo’s company to most.

“The public can tell, too,” adds Takeda, starting forward again. “That’s why you’re getting offered contracts like _Calvin Klein_. People want to see more of the you that smiles.”

“What a waste of time.”

“Calvin Klein?” Takeda wrinkles his nose like a kid. “No, Tsukishima, Calvin Klein is not a waste of time.”

Kei makes a frustrated noise in the back of his throat. “I mean, what the public thinks about my… about how I get along with Kuroo. Paying attention to that feels like a waste of time.”

“You’re an idol,” Takeda says, not for the first time. “Caring about what the public thinks is part of your job.”

“I know that,” Kei says, tapping his foot impatiently. “But I never bothered to pretend to be nice or approachable.”

Takeda laughs, pulling into an underground parking lot. “I think that’s why people are so interested.” He pulls out a pass card and rolls down the window so he can press it to the security door scanner. The gate beeps and opens to allow them access. “Because you aren’t pretending anything. You just look…” He settles back in his seat after parking the car. “Happier. Like I said before. Don’t think you can lie to me, Tsukishima. I’ve known you since you were fourteen. You were upset after Nametsu, and you’re happy now.”

“Do we have to sit in the car and talk about our feelings, or can I go do this photo shoot?” Kei crosses his arms defensively. 

“Ah!” Takeda’s eyes widen. “We’re going to be late! For a Calvin Klein shoot! Ah!” His frizzy-curly hair seems to grow with his stress. “Let’s go! Hurry up!”

“Maybe I’m too _happy_ to hurry,” Kei replies, slowly climbing out of the car.

Takeda makes a short squeaking sound, flapping his arms, and Kei snickers at him, pushing this conversation aside the way he’s pushed aside every conversation about Kuroo. 

*

“Nice spread,” Kuroo says, dangling the magazine in front of Kei as he skates his fingers across the keys, laying down the revised melody of his and Kuroo’s composition. It had fallen by the wayside for a while in favor of a slow guitar song Kuroo had gotten stuck on, but now they’re almost finished, trying to put the final touches on it before filming starts, since Kuroo seems to think they aren’t going to have much time. ( _“I’ve worked with this director before. Long shoots.”_ ) “A bit grim, though.”

Kei flicks his eyes up to look at the picture Kuroo has the magazine open to. It’s one of the last shots, when the photographer had tried to make Kei laugh and instead had only driven Kei’s expression into something even more dour and unimpressed. The shadows obscure the far side of his face, and it’s not much different than a lot of Kei’s photographs. Nothing special. “I’m grim.”

“Not really,” Kuroo replies, pulling the magazine back to himself before dropping it on the floor at his feet. “Your eyes aren’t even smiling, four-eyes.”

“My _eyes_ aren’t smiling?” Kei snorts. “I should introduce you to Hinata. He also hates speaking anything but nonsense.”

Kuroo drapes himself across Kei’s back, then, mouth against the curve of Kei’s jaw and hands sliding down Kei’s chest. “Definitely not nonsense,” Kuroo replies. “Should I prove it to you?”

“How are you going to do that?” Kei starts to ask, but then Kuroo is kissing him, coaxing his lips open easily and slipping his tongue into Kei’s mouth. Kei leans back instinctively, tilting his head back, keyboard forgotten, and reaches up with one arm to catch Kuroo’s neck to hold him in place. Kuroo laughs into Kei’s mouth, one of his hands resting warm on Kei’s belly, and tilts his face for a better angle.

Kuroo pulls back suddenly, leaving Kei panting and confused, and his eyes focus right as Kuroo holds up his phone and snaps a photo. 

Kei licks his lips, and Kuroo grins at him crookedly, turning the phone around to show Kei the picture. It's better than any of the photographs in the magazine spread, maybe, even if Kei looks soft and vulnerable in it, mouth red and eyes bright. 

“See?” Kuroo says, gently, laughing slightly. “Your eyes are smiling.”

Kei flushes, and drops his gaze back to the keyboard. “I thought we were doing something productive?” 

“What a task master you are, Tsukishima.” Kuroo plops into the empty seat beside Kei. “Fine, fine, let’s finish this.” He picks up their lyrics. “After all, filming starts soon.”

“Yes,” Kei says. “It does.”

*

“Spring sure is procrastinating this year,” Haiba says, shivering in her thin dress. They’re filming a scene with Kei’s character and hers in the park to introduce their friendship. It’s only the third scene Kei’s shot, even though Kuroo has already been on set for a week. “Why couldn’t we film this scene in parkas?”

“Cheer up, Haiba!” The director grins at her as Kei shifts his weight from foot to foot, his own shirt feeling too thin for the weather. The wind keeps getting caught between the buildings, making it colder than the actual temperature. “We’re almost done. Two more angles.”

“Right, right!” She laughs, and then looks up at Kei. “After this, we’re definitely going to go steal Kuroo’s body heat, right, Tsukishima?” 

Kei cuts a sidelong glance at Kuroo, who is sitting next to one of the makeup artists, dressed in his wool coat with a scarf around his neck as he messes with her equipment. “We have to film an outdoor scene together after this,” he says. 

“So I’ll be the only warm one, then?” She looks inordinately pleased at the idea. “I can work with that.” 

“Okay, okay, I’m ready,” the director says, and filming starts again.

 _Rich Man, Poor Man_ is, at its heart, the story of friendship between two men who grew up in very different financial circumstances, but Kei thinks love triangles must be somehow obligatory, since he’s rarely been in a drama without one. The scene he’s filming now is supposed to set up Kei’s wealthy character’s long-term affection for Haiba Arisa’s character, whose father is the business partner of Kei’s. 

He’s supposed to look at her adoringly, and she’s supposed to not notice, and the last angles are going to be close up on Kei’s face, so he’ll have to stop shivering uncomfortable and focus.

They run through it four times, with the director asking Kei for more expression each time. “You’re _in love_ with her,” he says, finally, his hands on his hips. “Haven’t you ever been in love, Tsukishima?”

Frustrated, Kei looks away from the director, taking in the staff as he searches himself for the right expression. Not, he thinks, the way Nishinoya and Tanaka look at Kiyoko. That kind of blatant adoration feels distant, unsubstantiated. He also doesn’t want the way Yachi looks at Kiyoko sometimes, with this sort of hopeless longing that won’t ever be acknowledged. 

His eyes land on Kuroo, who is no longer teasing the makeup artists, and has instead dropped down into a squat between the chairs, one hand outstretched toward the tiny nervous black kitten that will serve as a prop in one of the later scenes they’re filming tonight. Kuroo’s forefinger is slightly pointed, millimeters from tapping the kitten’s nose, and a genuine smile stretches across his face as the kitten reaches up with one paw and bats curiously at the extended digit. It’s so Kuroo, to determinedly approach even when he knows it’ll be a challenge. It’s not too different, Kei decides, from the way Kuroo had approached Kei, poking and waiting and clearly telegraphing every movement in case Kei got spooked.

“That’s it!” The director says. “That’s the look!” 

Startled, Kei tears his eyes away from Kuroo, a blush crawling up his neck. “What?”

“You found the right expression,” the director says. “That’s what I want. That look on your face, right now.”

“But I haven’t…” Kei trails off, and then flicks his gaze back over at Kuroo, his stomach sinking even as his pulse speeds up. _You’re in love with her,_ the director had said, and Kei forces himself to look at Haiba. She’s peering up at him curiously, and Kei swallows.

“Rolling!” The director calls, and Kei, clenching his fists, looks down at Haiba and calls up the image of Kuroo. It changes, from Kuroo with the kitten to Kuroo in his bed, with one of Kei’s dinosaurs and a teasing smirk on his face. To Kuroo with a guitar in his lap, sitting next to his friend Kenma, quietly laughing as they plotted a melody. To Kuroo, above him, hand in Kei’s hair as Kei bit into the flesh of his thigh.

He thinks of Kuroo, and his stomach tightens uncomfortably, even as he says his lines and acts.

“What were you thinking about?” Haiba asks, as an assistant slides a jacket up her bare arms. She hunches into the sudden warmth. “An ex-girlfriend?” She purses her lips. “Nametsu Mai?” 

“Nothing in particular,” Kei replies, and Haiba doesn’t look like she believes him at all, but she doesn’t ask again. Kei hopes it’s because she can’t see the edge of panic he’s pushing down.

An arm drops over his shoulder, and Kei turns to see Kuroo, his coat gone and replaced by his character’s thin, ratty t-shirt. His skin is warm though, heat bleeding through Kei’s thin shirt. “Ready for our first scene together?” His lashes are dark against his cheeks, and his hair falls silky and soft into his eyes. 

And it’s not good, Kei knows, that his heart is still beating too fast, or that he wants to lean into Kuroo’s touch. It’s not safe, that he wants to do that, no matter how comfortable Kuroo has become for him, because Kei can admit friendship, but he isn’t really capable of more than that. “I’m not sure,” Kei says. “Are you going to be obnoxious?”

Haiba giggles as Kuroo winks at him. “My _character_ is obnoxious,” Kuroo replies, loftily. “It’s got nothing to do with _me_.”

“I think you were typecast.” Kei dips his shoulders, shrugging free of Kuroo’s arm. 

“No, that was you,” Kuroo replies, letting his arm fall easily back to his side. 

Then they’re shuffling into places for the next scene, Kuroo and Kei sitting next to each other on a park bench, taking last looks at their scripts before handing them off to assistants as sound techs adjusts the boom sticks to deal with the increased wind. 

When they actually start the scene, Kei sort of… forgets he’s acting, this time. Kuroo is natural, leaning back into the bench, his focus all on Kei, and Kei finds it easy to respond, letting the words he’s memorized slip out as his own every time Kuroo flashes him a smile. 

Kuroo’s fingertips come to rest on Kei’s thighs as his character tells Kei’s about his new job, and Kei’s got his heart in his throat as he watches those fingers tap absent patterns on the expensive silk of his trousers.

And when Kuroo leans in to whisper a secret in his ear, Kei leans back to accept it, Kuroo warm against him and comfortable and familiar. _No,_ he thinks, the twist in his stomach impossible to ignore. _No, not this._

“Cut!” The director is beaming when Kei looks over to him, jolting out of his thoughts. “Now you’re getting into it, Tsukishima!” 

“Am I?” Kei’s mouth is so dry, and panic beats rhythmically against his ribs as he shivers in the early spring wind.

“I think,” Kuroo murmurs, “that we’ve just got better chemistry.”

Kei blushes, and looks away, pushing his glasses up on his nose. “Or Haiba did all the hard work of warming me up.”

“Don’t go giving away my job, Ice Prince.” Kuroo’s hand slides higher up his thigh and squeezes before pulling away. “What’s up today, though?”

“What do you mean?”

“You look worried about something.” Kei makes himself look at Kuroo. He’s watching Kei carefully, and Kei wonders what Kuroo sees in his face that makes his eyes widen. “Really worried.” He pokes Kei’s cheek. “Tell your buddy Kuroo what’s wrong.”

 _I like you too much,_ Kei thinks, _and I don’t want to._ “My buddy?” 

“I’ve got a cat statue on your dino-shelf and everything. You not throwing it in the trash is, in my opinion, your version of giving me a friendship bracelet.”

“It means,” Kei says, closing his eyes and shivering again, “that I didn’t want to hear you whine about it.”

“You really are cold,” Kuroo says, and it’s not until Kuroo is sneaking his hand behind Kei’s back to wrap around his waist that Kei realizes Kuroo is being literal. “Maybe you’re more like a lizard. Cold-blooded.”

“Does that make you the rock?” Kei asks. He’s sure Kuroo must be able to feel the way Kei’s pulse is speeding up, tripping over itself under his skin. “Because that fits.” 

“So mean, four-eyes.” Kuroo laughs into his neck. Kei opens his eyes again, then stiffens when he realizes the director has been filming them. “What now?”

Kei shoves Kuroo away. “He’s been taking footage,” Kei replies.

“Showing how close we are?” Kuroo’s eyelashes are thicker than usual. Mascara. “Isn’t that what Ukai wants from us, anyway? Nekomata likes it too.”

“It’s not what _I_ want,” Kei says, sharply, and then bites down on his lip to imprison the rest of the words inside his mouth. “Never mind.”

“What do you want?” Kuroo asks him, tone even, and Kei wraps his arms around himself.

“To find my coat before I get frostbite,” he says, and when Kuroo laughs, he exhales. 

“What’s a little frostbite in the name of art?” Kuroo muses. He squats down and scoops up the kitten before it can take a bite of the earthworm coming up from a crack in the sidewalk. “So demanding, Tsukishima.”

“You’re the demanding one,” Kei replies, as they head inside to grab a quick lunch before filming starts again. 

*

Kei’s informed about his changing reputation Hinata, of all people, during an impromptu lunch at the agency.

“Everyone’s talking about your new drama,” Yachi says, as Kiyoko picks the onions off of her sandwich and puts them on the edge of Yachi’s plate. Yachi absently stuffs them into her own sandwich, and they hang out the sides like sad, translucent spider legs. “I hear it’s good.”

“You haven’t been watching?” Kei deadpans. “I’m heartbroken.”

“We’re on _tour_ ,” Yachi defends quickly, her eyes widening in fear that she’s offended him, but Kiyoko pats her shoulder and then points at the slight twist of Kei’s mouth. “Don’t be mean! I thought you were mad!”

“Of course he’s not!” Hinata, who has been curled up in the corner of the third floor lounge sofa with a stomachache, bursts into life. “No one could get mad at Yachi! Not even that asshole!” He points at Kei aggressively. “Right?”

“What did you call me?” Kei raises his eyebrow, and Hinata’s finger barely wobbles. 

“You’re less scary to me now than you were when we were teenagers!” Hinata shouts. “So stop making that face at me!”

“You’re not still a teenager?” 

Yachi giggles as Hinata scowls. “Shut up! You’re nice now! Even our fans think so!”

Kei’s lips part in surprise. “What?” He sneers. “And our band broke up. It’s my fans and your fans. Those are definitely _not_ the same people.”

Hinata swells up with glee, ignoring Kei’s addition about the band. “It’s ‘cause of your show and that tall Mr. Cat guy!” He ruffles his own hair before pitching his voice into something even higher and more obnoxious than usual. “ _Tsukki-kun has really changed, hasn’t he? So cute~!_ ” Hinata cackles. “And stuff like that, ya know? It’s great!”

“There is nothing _cute_ about me,” Kei snaps, as Hinata collapses back down to the sofa. 

“Stop making me laugh!” Hinata’s clutching his stomach. “I’m still suffering!”

“Are you okay, Hinata?” Yachi sets down her sandwich.

“He’s fine,” Kei says. “Morons are always fine.”

Kiyoko looks at him out of the corner of her eye with amusement as Hinata brings his knees up to his chest and hugs them. “If only the fans knew that you could never be cute!”

“If they’re wrong about that, don’t you think they might be wrong about me being nice?” Kei narrows his eyes at Hinata, but Hinata just pouts at him.

“You’ve never been nice, exactly,” Hinata says. “But you’re not actually all that mean, either, you know? You just like to be by yourself a lot, and you think it’s fun to make Kageyama pissed off. After ten years, I know you’re not all that bad. You’re nice to Yamaguchi and Yachi, anyway, and Suga can always make you blush and stuff. Your new drama is just showing people that are…” He waves his hand around the room, “ _not us_ that you’re only a normal person, that’s all.” Hinata wiggles his toes. “And that you’re not as cool as you pretend to be.”

Yachi puts the last of Kiyoko’s onion pieces onto her sandwich, and smiles at Kei before taking a bite.

Kei is at a loss for words. “I…”

Hinata nods. “It’s like when you broke up with the shiny happy girl, everyone thought you were—“ and Hinata makes some weird noise, “and now because you’re all—“ A wiggle of his fingers. “—with Mr. Cat, everyone is realizing they don’t really know you that well!”

“I don’t want them to.” Kei stabs at his salad. “It’s better if they don’t.”

“I think it’s wonderful,” says Yachi, “that people are finally seeing the Tsukishima we know.”

“It’s good for your solo career,” says Kiyoko, her first verbal contribution to the conversation, and Kei sighs.

“Ukai certainly agrees with you.” He spears a tomato. “He’s been asking that I be seen more with Kuroo.”

“So that’s why the paparazzi has been catching you.” Yachi hums, tilting her head, her side ponytail swinging. “I’d wondered, since except for that incident with Nametsu, you’ve never been caught unaware by the paparazzi.”

“Kuroo thinks it’s a good idea, too.” Kei shrugs. “It’s not that much of a chore, I guess.”

“You’re not spending time with Kuroo because you have to, though.” Yachi sets down her sandwich. “You just like him.”

Kei looks up at the ceiling, his glasses sliding up his nose until the lenses trap his eyelashes. He thinks about the way Kuroo eases into Kei’s personal space, and the way Kei barely even protests anymore. “Yes,” he says, finally, and then drops his chin to see Hinata, Kiyoko, and Yachi all looking at him in surprise, Hinata’s shock bordering on cartoonish. 

“Oh my _God_ ,” Hinata says, before dissolving into chortles, face mashing into the sofa cushion as he crumbles into a heap. “Kageyama was _right_.”

“Right about what?” Kei growls.

Hinata’s laughs turn into moans. “My _stomach_ ,” he whines. “Oh man, my _stomach_.”

Kei stabs again at his salad, and the cherry tomato explodes. 

Yachi pats his forearm. “I’m glad you’ve found another person you can be yourself around,” she says. “That’s not a bad thing.”

“Whatever,” Kei replies.

*

“I won’t let her come between us!” Kuroo shouts at him, and Kei reaches up with both hands to shove him back. Kuroo grabs his wrists. “You’re more important to me than anyone, Shiro!”

“If I were,” Kei replies, calmly, his jaw stuck out, “you wouldn’t have betrayed me like this.”

Kuroo’s serious expression melts off his face into a pleased grin. “Our characters are totally in love,” he says, and Kei rolls his eyes.

“That’s not your line.” He pulls his hands free of Kuroo’s grip, and Kuroo slides his palm up the outside of Kei’s arm. “I came over to run lines, not listen to you talk like everyone on the shows fanboards.”

“I think we’ve got this scene down for filming tomorrow,” Kuroo replies. His hand skims Kei’s shoulder and cups the back of his neck. “I think we should act on our characters’ sexual tension instead.”

“Or I could go home.”

“Now, now,” Kuroo says, kissing the tip of Kei’s nose. Kei’s pulse quickens. “It’s only eight in the evening. You don’t have to leave so soon.” He chuckles, and then drops his hand. “I’ve mastered our track. Want to listen?” 

He holds out his hand, palm up, and after a moment’s hesitation, Kei takes it. They leave their scripts and Kei’s sweatshirt on the couch, and Kei follows Kuroo back into his apartment studio. He moves to sit in his usual chair, but Kuroo pulls Kei into his lap instead, his long legs slotting on either side of Kuroo’s left thigh. 

“Am I five?”

“Not at all,” Kuroo says, lips brushing the top bump of Kei’s spine. “I just like the way you feel against me.”

“I thought we started all this to get me out of your system before filming,” says Kei. 

“I’m working on it.” One of Kuroo’s hands settles on his hip, and the other goes to open his mixing program on the large desktop computer. “Besides, now we’re _friends_.”

“I hate you,” Kei says, but he leans back, letting his back press to Kuroo’s chest. 

“I don’t think you do,” Kuroo replies, hitting play. 

The track they’d tentatively begun in December has become a catchy dance track, with interesting bits of instrumental solos strung through the pulsing synthetic bass. Kei closes his eyes and taps to the beat as the vocals start, his own voice taking the first verse with Kuroo singing backup until they get to the chorus, where Kei takes over with the harmony. 

“Do you like it?” Kuroo’s voice is low, his lips tickling Kei’s neck. 

It’s not the type music Kei usually makes or listens to. That’s always been melancholy rock songs with strong guitar and simple lyrics. Still, there’s something about the track that feels undeniably like Kei in this. He can hear the parts of the song that sound like him, just as easily as he can hear the parts the sound like Kuroo’s music too. It sounds like them, mixed together—which only makes sense, because they _wrote it_ together—and Kei thinks it’s surprising how good it is, really; some parallel to how good Kei and Kuroo are together, maybe, and that’s… “You didn’t do a terrible job,” Kei replies, and Kuroo opens his mouth on the skin of Kei’s neck. 

Kei tips his head back, to rest on Kuroo’s shoulder, his eyes falling closed, giving Kuroo more access even as he complains: “You’ve got to stop leaving marks there, idiot.”

Kuroo laughs as his tongue traces the jugular vein. “Then stop tasting so good,” he murmurs, at the curve of Kei’s shoulder.

“Your taste is questionable,” Kei says, licking his lips as the final chorus of their song plays and one of Kuroo’s hands slides down the front of his jeans. “All you eat is grilled fish.”

“What’s wrong with grilled fish?” Kuroo curls his hand into Kei’s underwear, around his still mostly soft cock. “I’m a Japanese man, and pike is good for us.”

“You like it too salty,” Kei answers, his hips lifting slightly as Kuroo strokes him to hardness. His ass grinds into Kuroo’s stiffening erection as he settles back down in Kuroo’s lap. 

Kuroo licks Kei’s collarbone. “I didn’t think you minded a little salt, Tsukishima.” He scrapes his teeth lightly along the same path as he’d lathed his tongue. "Salty isn’t always bad." He hums along to the end of the song. "Though I prefer some things sweet. Like curry."

“Like I said,” Kei replies. “Your taste is terrible.”

“Not all of it,” Kuroo says, gently, free hand cupping Kei’s cheek to turn his head for a kiss. 

Later, when Kei is on his hands and knees, arms shaking from Kuroo eating him out, licking into him until Kei had wanted Kuroo to fuck him enough to beg, Kuroo presses kisses to the curve of his ass and slides two fingers into him easily, purring smugly as Kei immediately thrusts back. “Look at you,” Kuroo says, curving his fingers down until he’s pressing lightly into Kei’s prostate. “All lit up.”

“Shut up,” Kei says, letting his head drop, his glasses slipping all the way down his nose and in danger of falling off. “Just—“ Kei gasps as a frizzle of heat goes up his spine. He’s so close his toes want to curl, but he knows Kuroo isn’t going to make him come like this. Not yet, at least.

“Say, four-eyes,” says Kuroo then, voice a little rough, and Kuroo’s got a third finger pressing against his rim, slick and slippery with too much lube, “I still think you taste pretty good.”

Kei’s fingers, clenching handfuls of bedsheets, twist tighter as Kuroo’s tongue slips into him between his spread fingers. “I’m not going to make that joke,” Kei manages.

“You’re still thinking too much.” Kuroo’s lips trace a slick path up to Kei’s hipbone, where he starts to suck another mark. “What’s your favorite food?”

“What?” Kei chokes on his own breath as the third finger finally pushes in alongside the other two, and his thighs quake. 

“Your favorite food,” Kuroo repeats, three fingers stroking at Kei’s prostate. Kei can feel the tears at the corners of his eyes, and his grits his teeth. “Since it’s not pike.”

“Does it matter?” As Kuroo’s pinky presses at his rim, Kei spreads his legs wider, dropping down to his elbows as his arms start to give out. “You’re always _talking_ instead of—“ The fourth finger burns as it slides in, and Kei bites his lip.

“It matters,” Kuroo says, soothing Kei with a hand sliding up the outside of his thigh. “If you’re going to insult my taste, you’ve got to tell me all about yours.” He flexes his fingers, and Kei whimpers at the stretch. “Can you take it?”

Kei takes a panting breath, letting his forehead drop to the mattress as Kuroo stills his fingertips inside him, the pads of his two middle fingers pressing lightly at his prostate. “Shortcake,” Kei mumbles, shuddering as he exhales the word. “Strawberry.” He measuredly presses his hips back to take Kuroo’s fingers in deeper.

“Adorable,” Kuroo replies, taking the hint and thrusting forward a few times, making sure to firmly push into Kei’s prostate each time before pulling almost the whole way out, leaving Kei clenching around nothing. “You know, your lips turn the color of strawberries when you suck me off.”

“I _hate_ you,” says Kei, voice crackling as Kuroo curls all his fingers at once. The stretch is wonderful and terrible, and Kei’s balls tighten with the need to come. His cock his leaking, trapped between the bed and his stomach, and his lungs burn from being unable to catch his breath at all. Then he feels the pad of Kuroo’s thumb rubbing gently at his rim, and he shivers with his whole body. “What are you…”

“Can you take it?” Kuroo waits for his answer, his fingers pressing constantly on Kei’s prostate, his other hand cupping his asscheek and holding Kei open for him. 

“Fuck,” Kei says, and he’s so close, and he wants to come, and of course Kuroo is going to drag words out of him now. 

“Is that a yes, or a no, four-eyes?” Kuroo smooths his hand up Kei’s back, resting at the small of it. “I need a clear answer, mmkay?” Kuroo’s thumb taps there, and he curls and uncurls his four fingers, stretching Kei more than he’s ever been stretched before. “So what’s it gonna be, gorgeous?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Kei manages, through his dry throat, pressing his hot face into the sheets. “Just stop _talking_.”

“Bossy,” Kuroo teases, and then his thumb is working in. 

Kei’s not sure if it hurts or feels good or both, maybe like some horrible sex metaphor for the feelings he’d told Tadashi he doesn’t have, and it’s all Kei can do to brace himself and force his muscles to relax. Kuroo whispers low, soothing nothings as he pushes in, and Kei focuses on the extra lube that slides down the back of his thighs instead of the uncomfortable stretch until Kuroo stops completely, letting him adjust. 

“You’re so good,” Kuroo tells him, moving his body so that his knees are between Kei’s, and the hand as the small of Kei’s back slides a bit further, into the arch.

“Just—“ Kei’s cock spurts another thin stream of precome, and his grits his teeth.

“Okay,” Kuroo says, and, as he starts humming the tune of their song again, he curls his hand into a fist. With knuckles pressing roughly into his prostate, the pressure and stretch of Kuroo’s hand unrelenting, Kei comes in a heaving, shivering mess, all of his muscles tensing and releasing as he muffles his cries into crumpled sheets. 

He loses awareness of Kuroo for some indeterminate amount of time, along with feeling in his thighs, and he comes back only to find himself on his back with Kuroo looking down on him with narrowed eyes, scanning his face. “What do you want?” Kei croaks out, and then Kuroo grins.

“Hi there,” Kuroo replies. “Welcome back.”

“What?” Kei tries to sit up, but he doesn’t have the energy, flopping immediately back down into the pillows and shifting around how empty he feels with nothing inside him anymore. He’s also been wiped down, come and lube gone from his skin.

“You went away for a bit,” Kuroo says, lying down beside him. He lies a hand on the flat of Kei’s belly, and props himself up with the other, so that he can still look right into Kei’s face. “Your glasses are all smeared.”

“I probably wanted to escape you,” Kei says, averting his eyes from the expression of Kuroo’s face, which seems too intimate and fond. Kei is hyperaware of every place their bodies are touching, even though they’ve had sex enough times Kei shouldn’t even react anymore. “And I’m surprised you didn’t clean them when you apparently cleaned the rest of me.”

“You wouldn’t have liked that,” Kuroo says, skating his fingers up from Kei’s stomach to his chest and then back down again. “I wasn’t sure when you would wake up, and I know you hate it when you can’t see.”

There’s a lump in Kei’s throat. “Yes,” Kei replies, a lump in his throat. “I do.”

“See? I’m not so bad at you, Tsukishima Kei.” He taps his four fingers on Kei’s sternum. “I know lots. Like how your favorite food is strawberry shortcake, and you love dinosaurs.”

“That’s not an accomplishment,” says Kei. “An internet search could have told you that.”

“But it didn’t,” answers Kuroo. “You did.” Then he kisses Kei’s forehead. “Do you think the song is finished?”

“It needs a better bridge.” Kei swallows.

Kuroo makes a thoughtful noise at the back of his throat. “We can work on it tomorrow.”

“Who says I’m going to be here tomorrow?” Kei looks at Kuroo again, through his messy lenses, and Kuroo gives him a crooked, lecherous grin. 

“Well,” he says, sliding his hand down to rest on Kei’s pelvic bone, “you’re certainly not walking out of here tonight.”

Kei throws an arm over his face. “I hate you.”

Kuroo laughs. “No,” he says, “I don’t think you do.”

*

“We’ll be in Tokyo next week,” Kei’s mom says, when he answers the phone. “Make some time to go out to dinner with us, Kei.”

Kei sighs, looking up and down the hallway as he stands outside of Takeda’s office. “It’s not the best time,” he says. It’s true enough. They’ve started doing night shoots, and the drama is getting so popular that various network programs want interviews, and have requested Kuroo, Haiba and Kei for appearances on shows Kei has avoided like the plague for years. 

“You can make time for _dinner_ ,” his mother chastises, and Kei sighs again.

“Maybe lunch,” he replies. “Night shoots.”

“Night shoots?” His mother makes a clucking noise. “You’re taking care of yourself, right?”

“I’ve been taking care of myself since I was nine,” Kei replies. “Yes, it’s fine, this is normal.”

“Normal?” Kei’s mom laughs. “I suppose for you, it is.”

Takeda opens the door to his office, his bag over his shoulder and his keys in hand. “I have to go,” Kei says. “I’ll talk to you later about a time to meet.” He ends the call. 

“Everything okay?” Takeda asks, checking his watch. “We need to go or we’ll be late for your radio appearance.”

“Just my mom,” Kei says, and Takeda grins. 

“I like your mom,” he replies. “Such a friendly woman.”

“She’s one of those happy little people like you and Hinata,” Kei mutters, and Takeda, who had switched to sending rapid fire texts on his phone looks up. 

“Hmm?”

“It’s nothing,” Kei says, and they head toward the parking lot. 

Kei doesn’t remember about lunch again until Friday of that week, when he, Haiba and Kuroo are wrapping up the day’s filming at five in the morning, forced to stop shooting because the sun is rising. 

He turns his phone back on to see two missed calls from his mother and one annoyed text from his father telling him to return his mother’s calls because otherwise she’ll drive him up a wall. He scowls down at his phone.

“What did your phone do to you?” Kuroo asks, dropping down in one of the empty folding chairs as the staff packs up. “Is that scowl for the text message or the sender?”

“Both,” Kei replies. “It’s my parents.”

Haiba, who is taking her hair down from the complicated up-do she’s had in for hours for the extremely important company party scene they’ve been filming all day, molds her lips into a surprised ‘oh’. “Do you not get along with your parents, Tsukishima?”

“I get along with them fine,” Kei replies. “We’re just… different.” He shrugs. “They want to have lunch sometime next week.”

“And you don’t want to?” Haiba drops a handful of collected pins into her lap. “It’s just lunch.”

“It’s never just lunch.” Kei scratches at his cheek. “It’s…” He hesitates. “It’s hard to talk to them, when Yamaguchi isn’t there.”

“You can’t take Yamaguchi along with you this time?” Kuroo asks.

“He and his rookies are in Nagoya,” says Kei, pushing his glasses up his nose. “It’s not a big deal. I haven’t seen them since just before Christmas, and it’s not like I didn’t see them then by myself.”

“I could go with you,” Kuroo says, catching his gaze.

“Why would you do that?” Kei gives Kuroo a suspicious look.

“Because we’re _friends_ ,” Kuroo teases. “Besides, I’m kinda interested to see what your parents are like.”

“You’ll probably get along with them spectacularly.” Kei runs a hand through his hair. “Most people do. Better than you get along with me.”

“I think we get along really well.” Kuroo extends his foot to tap Kei’s calf with the toe of his shoe. “After all, it’s our characters getting all the buzz.”

Haiba laughs. “I’m almost jealous,” she says, blinking her two-colored eyes at them. “Only everyone is complimenting my acting, so it’s not so bad.” She shakes out her long blond hair, and it tumbles in a crinkled mess around her shoulders. “It’s not so bad, being the second romantic lead.” She elbows Kuroo. “Your character is supposed to fall for _me_ , you know.”

“Are you insulting _my_ acting?” Kuroo puts his hand against his chest in a melodramatic look of shock. “Arisa, how cruel!”

Haiba covers her mouth to stifle her giggles. “Of course not, Kuroo!” She stands up, holding the edge of her skirt up to trap the pins. “I’m going to go get changed, so I can go to bed.”

“Go get your beauty sleep, second romantic lead~” Kuroo shoos her away, and she goes, headed back toward the trailer van they’ve all been sharing for costume changes for today’s shoot. “I’m serious about my offer, Tsukishima,” Kuroo says, turning back to Kei. “I’ll go to lunch with you.”

“I don’t actually need someone to hold my hand so that I can have lunch with my parents, you know. They’re nice people and they like me. It’s just easier with Tadashi there because it takes some of the pressure off of me to be social.” He wrinkles his nose. “It’s also usually okay when my brother is there, since they can just sort of… talk around me.”

“What if I like holding your hand?” Kuroo kicks him lightly again. “I meant it when I said I wanted to meet your parents, anyway.”

“You’ll wonder how I turned out like this,” Kei says, and Kuroo raises both brows.

“Like what?”

Kei returns his look, unimpressed, and Kuroo shakes his head. 

“You know, I like you just fine like you are, four-eyes. Music nerdery and dinosaur collections included.”

Kei studies him for a moment, taking in the golden glint of his eyes and the affectionate curl of his lip, and it aches in his chest, like something frozen in his chest is trying its best to thaw. He remembers, again, the director telling him to look at Haiba _”like he’s in love with her”_ , and his eyes drifting to Kuroo with that black kitten. Kei licks his lips. “Haven’t we already decided your taste is terrible?”

“No,” Kuroo says, standing himself. “You decided that. I still respectfully disagree.” He ruffles Kei’s hair, and Kei slaps his hand away, fighting a blush and scowling. “Wednesday is good for me, Tsukishima. For lunch.”

“You don’t have to go,” Kei says again, and Kuroo catches his hand, linking their fingers together briefly. Holding his hand. 

“Go get some sleep,” Kuroo says, quietly, then drops their linked hands, pulling them apart. “We’ve got that interview at three this afternoon.” Kei grunts, and Kuroo laughs, heading for the trailer as Haiba opens the door, wearing jeans and chatting on the phone, her hair pulled up into a sloppy ponytail. 

Kei lifts up his own phone again, and opens a reply text to his dad. _Can’t call,_ he texts, his fingers hitting the wrong keys because he really hates tiny phone screen keyboards. _But Wednesday._

He shoves his phone into his pocket, and loosens his tie, before standing up, the last of the leads still sitting outside while the staff cleans up around him, and walks toward the trailer to get changed.

*

Clips of an interview with Kuroo airs on the following Tuesday, the first warm day of spring. 

Kei watches it as he memorizes lines, curled up on his sofa with a mug of tea and his bare feet tucked into the folds of his knees, script on his lap as he eyes keep wandering to the screen. 

At one point, the host asks Kuroo how he and Kei became friends, and Kei looks up to watch Kuroo answer the question, chuckling, something hot winding through the obvious amusement. 

“I just kept pestering him to get a drink with me,” Kuroo says casually, and Kei remembers that first drink, and the way Kuroo’s mouth had tasted of rum. Kuroo on screen looks sort of like he’s remembering it too, and Kei’s stomach sinks, the tea not heavy enough to explain the phenomenon. “I can be almost as stubborn as he is.”

“Tsukishima has a reputation of being difficult to get to know,” the interviewer says. “Do you agree?” 

“I think a lot of things that are worth something are difficult.” He slumps a bit in his hair, his broad shoulders shifting visibly in his tight dress shirt. “And getting to know Tsukishima is worth a lot.”

“It’s nice to see new friendships develop, especially among idols from rival companies,” the interviewer says, and Kei tunes her out, staring instead at the look on Kuroo’s face; the half-mast eyelids and the quirk of his lips. 

Kei grips his mug tight enough he fears it might crack in his hands. 

Later, after he’s dressed and showered and ready to head to filming, Kei sits on the roof of the Ukai building, his eyes on the skyline as he waits for Takeda to wrap up something with Azumane in his office.

“I thought you had drama stuff tonight?” Tadashi sits down next to him, bumping Kei with his shoulder. Kei exhales, looking at him out of the corner of his eye.

“I thought you were leaving for Nagoya.”

“In an hour or so,” Tadashi replies. “Heard you were up here.”

“Oh?”

“Nishinoya told me.” He laughs. “ _Tsukki is up there brooding, so go kick his ass!_ ” 

Kei snorts. “I’m not brooding.”

“You definitely are,” says Tadashi. “That’s okay. You do that, sometimes. How is shooting going?”

“Well,” Kei says, and then he curls his hands into fists in his lap. “Haiba’s great. Sometimes she reminds me of Yachi.” He pauses. “Kuroo is Kuroo.”

“Ah,” Tadashi says, stretching his legs out in front of him. “Kuroo.”

“You’re not going to say anything gross, are you?” Kei throws his head back, looking up at the sky. It’s gone gray, the last stage of sunset, and he can’t see any stars, only clouds.

“You don’t even think feelings are gross. You just don’t want to have them.”

“I think they’re gross, _and_ I don’t want to have them.” Kei blinks, slowly. “Seems like a waste of time.”

Tadashi huffs a laugh. “So you’re stressed out about your not-relationship?” He draws his legs up and crosses his arms to rest on his knees. “Then end it.”

“That’s…” Kei’s mouth is dry. “It’s not convenient to do that.”

“Will Kuroo get mad at you or something?”

“No,” Kei says, certain of that, at least. “He wouldn’t.”

“So what makes it not convenient?” Tadashi bumps him with his shoulder. “The fact that you don’t _want_ to end it?”

Kei is silent, and Tadashi is staring at him. He swallows. “He’s going to lunch with me tomorrow,” he says. “With my parents.”

Now Tadashi is silent.

“Do you want my opinion, or do you want me to change the subject?” Tadashi asks, finally, and Kei closes his eyes. 

“Change the subject,” he replies, and Tadashi bumps him again, and starts to talk about their rookies. 

*

Kei isn’t expecting his brother at lunch. When he and Kuroo walk into the restaurant, Kuroo a couple steps behind him, he hesitates when he spots Aki sitting at the table, next to an open seat. 

“Don’t you have work?” Kei asks, looking directly at him, and Aki looks up from the menu to smile at him. 

“Took the day off,” Aki replies. “Kuroo Tetsurou?”

“That’s me,” Kuroo says, grinning. He bows to Kei’s parents. “A pleasure.” His hand brushes the small of Kei’s back, a brief gesture of comfort, and Kei’s surprised to feel the tension abate, slightly. 

Lunch starts well. Kuroo is, as Kei has said before, good at people, and so is everyone else in Kei’s family. Conversation flows around him, and Kei picks at his soup and answers questions monosyllabically, as he usually does.

For a while, they talk about the drama, and Kuroo talks about how well he and Kei get along with Haiba, and a bit about how her brother is in Kuroo’s band.

“It’s a lot of fun,” Kuroo says. “It’s good, working with this guy.” He grins at Kei.

“Could be worse,” Kei agrees neutrally, and Kuroo just laughs, as Kei’s father shakes his head and his mother’s eyes crinkle in amusement.

“You could sound more excited,” Aki says, gently, and Kei rolls his eyes.

“I’m not a performing monkey,” Kei replies. “I’m not going to jump up and down in my seat over anything for your benefit.”

Aki smiles at him. “Too cool for it?” 

“I don’t need to be cool around someone like you, either.”

“Kei’s mean to me, but he wanted to be just like me we were younger.”

Kei stirs his soup. “Yes, when I was thirteen. Before I found out you were just a quitter.”

Aki frowns at him. “I wasn’t a quitter, Kei. Not everyone can actually become an idol.”

“That’s true,” Kei agrees. “Most people who can’t don’t lie about it until they get caught, though.”

Aki looks down at the table, and Kei’s mother makes a shocked noise that she muffles with her hand. Kuroo rests a hand on Kei’s knee.

“I was just a kid,” Aki says. “I didn’t want you to be disappointed.”

“You were seventeen,” Kei says. “Does that still qualify as just a kid?” He shrugs. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

“That’s right,” Kei’s father says. “You’re both successful at what you do, and there’s no need to argue about it now.”

“We should get cake!” Kei’s mom adds, cheerily. “Kuroo, do you like cake?”

“Sure,” Kuroo says, easily. “Not as much as Tsukki does, but enough.” Kei shoots him a look, and he laughs. “I’m not calling you Tsukishima at a table full of Tsukishimas.”

“I’ll let you get away with it this once.” 

“Would you have become an idol, if I hadn’t joined Ukai first?” Aki asks, quietly, drawing Kei’s attention back to him.

“No,” Kei replies. “But I’m not upset that this is the career I have. It’s not about you at all anymore.”

And then Kei’s mother is interrupting again to ask if Kuroo has siblings, and Kuroo is smoothing things over, conversation picking back up easily as Kei is once again allowed to fade into the background, the way he likes it. 

“Your friend is nice,” Kei’s mother says, when he’s hugging her goodbye. “Tell Tadashi we said hello, okay?”

“Yes.” Kei nods to his father, and, after a moment of hesitation, to Aki as well, and Aki smiles at him, looking a little lost. Kei isn’t going to worry about it.

Kuroo doesn’t say anything for a while as they walk to Kei’s car. It’s not until he gets into the passenger seat that he says: "You know, before I met you I thought you didn’t care much about being an idol."

“I remember that.” Kei turns the key in the ignition. "I was a bit offended that you think I’d be wasting my life like that." 

“Realizing how much you liked music made you interesting to me.” Kuroo fastens his seatbelt. “More interesting.” He leans back in his seat. “I didn’t know you became an idol because your brother couldn’t.”

“I wanted to become an idol because I thought he already _had_ ,” Kei admits. “He was always talking about how great it all was, in training, and it offered me a way to pursue things I liked while following my big brother.”

“Are you happy as an idol?” Kuroo isn’t judgmental or demanding. He’s leaned casually against the window, his head turned toward Kei. His brows are drawn together, emphasizing the brightness of his eyes as the early afternoon sun comes in through the window. “With being Karasuno’s Ice Prince?”

Kei runs a hand through his hair. "Sometimes,” Kei says.

“Like when you get to act with me?” 

“The acting is good. But I’d like to do something more with the music I’m allowed to release." It sounds weighty, aloud. Ungrateful or something, like Hinata complaining about not being a main vocal when he’s the best at harmonies out of all of them. "I mean, not more. But mine."

"You don’t need an official single to release new music." Kuroo’s chin digs into his open palm. "You can make it a gift, for your fans. Release stuff on Youtube." Kuroo licks at the corners of his mouth. “Wanna do that with our track?”

“Maybe,” Kei says. He shifts the car out of park and into drive. “Thanks for coming with me.”

“Anything for my favorite stegosaurus,” Kuroo says, and he straightens in his seat, reaching out and linking their pinkies together at the gear shift. “You were wrong, by the way.”

“About what?”

“I didn’t get along with them better than I get along with you.”

“You said more to them over one lunch than you’ve said to me in five months.”

“Talking isn’t the only way to communicate,” Kuroo replies, and Kei, thinking he’s making a dirty joke, peeks at him out of the corner of his eye. Kuroo’s face is serious, though, even though his mouth is curled in a tiny smile. “Like I said before, Tsukki, I like you just the way you are.”

“I only said you could get away with calling me that once,” Kei replies, ignoring the warm, pleased blush, pulling out onto the road, while Kuroo is laughing in the passenger seat.

“I’m starting to think I can get away with a lot with you,” Kuroo muses, and Kei’s heart beats faster as he hopes Kuroo doesn’t realize how true that is.

*

Kei does his best not to think about the fact that how he feels about Kuroo goes beyond what he’s comfortable with and into uncharted territory. 

He presses Kuroo back into the headboard of his bed, surrounded by Kei’s dinosaur figurines, and fucks him, and does not think about how he doesn’t think he could get tired of the weight of Kuroo’s thighs on his shoulders, or the way Kuroo’s cock gets a little harder when Kei makes it hurt. 

He doesn’t think about the intimacy of Kuroo’s head in his lap as they watch their drama air, Kei’s hands carding through thick black hair, his attention split between watching the screen, and the tiny puffs of Kuroo’s every exhale on his bare knees. 

He doesn’t think about it, but he knows he needs to soon, because leaving it like this is setting himself up for something he doesn’t want or need, and he should go back to the nothingness that made it easy for him to break Nametsu’s heart.

*

On the last day of March, when _’Rich Man, Poor Man’_ airs its eighth episode, it becomes the most watched weekday night drama in Japan, despite airing on a Wednesday, out of the coveted Monday-night slot. 

Kei finds out sitting across from Ukai in his office, as they discuss his April schedule.

“Congratulations,” Ukai says, cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth, his feet up on the table. “You’ve turned your lowest moment into a career high.”

“My lowest moment?” Kei snorts. “I don’t know what that means.”

“That break-up with Nametsu was terrible for your career,” Ukai says, frankly. “We both know it. What you don’t know is how much influence Gramps had to exert to keep you from getting slandered even worse. Nametsu came out of this looking great, but you came out of it looking like the worst boyfriend in Japan.”

“Ex-boyfriend,” Kei replies, and Ukai rolls his eyes.

“Semantics.” A bit of ash falls off the edge of his cigarette onto the nice wooden table. “Anyway, the point is, kid, the public is fickle, and this really could have buried the corpse of your likeability forever into the ground. People who’d never really even heard of you thought you were awful, okay?”

“I get the point,” Kei says. “I obviously didn’t plan for any of that to happen.”

“Nah, I know. You’re a good talent, kid. You don’t cause me problems, or have past scandals that keep coming back to haunt you like Kageyama, or anything like that. Still, the fact that all it took was seeing you hang out with that guy from Nekoma and a solid drama to drag you out of that is pretty amazing.” He taps his cigarette on the edge of his ashtray, ignoring the fact that most of the ash had already fallen on his desk. “It helps that Nametsu didn’t take advantage of the media to throw you under the bus.”

Kei shifts in his seat. “She’s… not that kind of person.”

“Wow,” says Ukai, snapping the elastic of his headband and raising both eyebrows. “Look at you emoting over there.” Kei clears his throat, and Ukai sighs. “Anyway, congratulations, and welcome to variety hell.”

“What kind of congratulations is that?”

“The kind that good marketing offers you,” is Ukai’s blunt reply. “Don’t worry, you’ll be with your co-stars. They want all three of you to make the rounds. Try to enjoy it.”

Kei adjusts his glasses. “I’m terrible at variety.”

“I don’t think you’ll be so bad with Kuroo to help you.” Ukai sits up at his desk and looks at Kei speculatively. “I wouldn’t have guessed that would be the sort of personality you worked best with.”

Kei bites down on his lower lip, to keep from saying _me neither._

 _number one!!_ reads the text from Kuroo later that night, when Kei is sitting with Tadashi and Yachi in a grilled meat restaurant that they frequented a lot when they were younger, before they warranted the private room in the back. 

“Is that Kuroo?” Yachi asks, carefully plucking a piece of meat from the grill and setting it on her plate. 

“He’s excited about the drama,” Kei replies, not looking up from the grill himself, because he can’t figure out what his face might say to people as observant as Yachi and Tadashi when it comes to Kei’s micro-expressions.

“Oh!” Yachi claps. “Yui, Kiyoko and I caught up on the first six episodes! It’s really good, Tsukishima!”

Kei shrugs, dragging his meat through the sweet sauce and taking a bite so he doesn’t have to answer. 

“You and Kuroo really suit each other,” she adds, and Tadashi chokes on his tea as Kei stubbornly grabs another piece of beef.

“I suppose,” is Kei’s bland reply, and he sincerely hopes his red face is blamed on the grill. 

He drops by Kuroo’s that afternoon to pick up his phone charger, because he’d left it the previous night on Kuroo’s night stand. 

Kuroo answers the door spinning the white cord and adaptor like a lasso, and Kei hold out his hand expectantly. 

“Why should I give this to you?” Kuroo asks. He’s rumpled and sleepy, his shirt rucked up to reveal his toned, tan abs, and his hair a total mess. “What’s in it for me?”

“I won’t knee you in the testicles,” Kei replies, a flash of desire zipping up his spine as Kuroo looks him up and down lazily.

“Mmm,” Kuroo says, grabbing the front of Kei’s sweatshirt and pulling him just inside the door. “Tempting, but no deal.” Then he leans forward and kisses him, deep and sure, and when he pulls back, he presses the cord and adapter into Kei’s slack hand, closing his fingers around it. “That’ll do, though.”

“Incorrigible.” Kei brings a hand up to touch his tingling lips.

“Only a little,” Kuroo replies. “Sure you can’t stay to celebrate having the top drama in the country?”

“I have an appearance for Suzuki with Sugawara in about an hour,” Kei says, taking a step back.

“Too bad.” Kuroo leans against the door frame. “Maybe next time, Tsukishima.”

“Don’t hold your breath,” Kei says, though they both know at this point that it wouldn’t be so bad if Kuroo did.

Later, when Kei is checking his hair in the mirror, he sees Sugawara watching him, bemused, from behind him. “What?”

“Nothing,” Sugawara says, before he breaks into a grin. “Well, not _nothing_ , but nothing important.”

“Just spit it out,” he mutters, turning around to face Sugawara, noting that his eyebrows have been bleached again to match his hair. 

“This is the first time I’ve seen you have a crush since Kageyama," says Sugawara, and Kei drops the brush in his hand, jaw going slack before he catches himself.

“Why does everyone think I had a—“ He sneers, “ _crush_ on Kageyama?”

Sugawara crosses his arms triumphantly. “No denial that you have a crush right now?”

“I thought that part was obviously untrue.”

“Really?” Sugawara purses his lips. “I’m not so sure, Tsukki.” He grins, mischievous, because Suga has always been secretly a brat, in the same way Hinata has weaponized being openly one. “You look like you’re crushing pretty hard to me.” He pats him on the shoulder. “You should stop touching your lips, if you want to be subtle. You can talk to big brother Suga if you want. I’ll be willing to help you out.”

Kei looks angrily down at the floor, at the toes of his shoes, at the uneven tile of the changing room behind the showcase hall. “You don’t…” He runs his tongue along his teeth. “I really wish everyone wouldn’t do this to me.”

Sugawara tilts his head in genuine surprise. “Do what?”

“Talk down to me about things like this.” He clenches his hands around the edge of the vanity. “I don’t need to talk about my feelings, or get them interpreted. I’m not hopeless, or emotionally _stunted_ , or whatever everyone has decided I am. I understand emotions just fine. I just don’t want them.”

Sugawara actually takes a step back. “I wasn’t…” He puts his hands on his hips. “I’m not talking down to you. I’m _teasing_ you.” He’s quiet for a long moment. “It’s always been the easy way to make you relax, I guess. You get annoyed and then you talk, you know?”

“Why do I have to talk?” Kei looks up to meet Sugawara’s open gaze. “Why should I have to tell you all about my thoughts? Why can’t I keep them to myself?” The words spill out of him. “Why can’t I ignore them? They just make everything unnecessarily complicated. It’s not worth it.”

“Because they eat you up,” Sugawara says. “Yeah, sometimes it’s selfish, because we want to help, and we don’t know how. Sometimes, though, it’s clear that you need to talk, and all of us—your friends, your band—we know you won’t ask. So we ask for you.”

Kei breathes in deeply. “What I want most is to be left alone,” Kei says, and he’s not sure if he means by other people or by his own feelings.

And maybe the only thing Kei hates more than having emotions is for other people to know about them. It leaves him feeling vulnerable, naked under other people’s scrutiny, and in the end, it’s never worth it; to be the focus of other people’s attention for something like this, when Kei’s not even lonely or longing for more company than he had this time last year.

Sugawara opens his mouth to reply, but then Takeda peeks into the room, his eyes excited. 

“Let’s—“ He stops, looking between them. “Am I interrupting something?”

“No,” Kei says. “We’re ready to go.”

“Right,” Sugawara says, but he grabs Kei’s wrist as Kei is walking out the door. “Hey,” he says, quietly. “Sorry, you know?”

“Whatever,” Kei says, but he thinks about that conversation throughout the rest of their appearance at that night as he gets ready for bed, turning the cat figurine on his shelf of dinosaurs to face the wall. 

*

Kei turns on the radio to Oikawa’s show because the day’s guest is Kageyama, and nothing makes Kei’s day quite like listening to Kageyama try to finish an interview without cursing anyone out. 

He wouldn’t go out of his way to do it, but he’s driving to the Ukai agency for a duet rehearsal with Michimiya, for a TV Asashi Golden Week program they’re pre-recording in a couple of weeks, and his travel time just happens to coincide with the program air time, so it’s a no-brainer to check out Kageyama making a fool out of himself.

Oikawa is babbling about dating rumors when Kei gets to the right station, something about his friend Iwaizumi and some girl from the Fukurodani agency, where Bokuto and Akaashi are signed, and Kageyama makes disgruntled interrupting noises until Oikawa is forced to acknowledge him.

“And what’s wrong, Tobio?” Oikawa says. “Did you have the hots for her too?”

“No,” Kageyama replies. “I just think it’s stupid to talk about Iwaizumi’s personal life, when what’s important is how well he does his job.”

“What an idealist!” Oikawa sounds delighted. “This wouldn’t be because Iwa-chan is you’re hero, would it?”

“I don’t have _heroes_ ,” Kageyama sputters, and Kei snickers, turning up the volume as he switches into the fast lane. It’s only fifteen minutes before he has to be at the agency.

“Okay, well here’s a story that involves someone from your rival agency, Nekomata.” Oikawa hums. “Photos have leaked of Kuroo Tetsurou, your former bandmate Tsukishima’s new bestie, smooching Haiba Arisa, his co-star in the hit drama _‘Rich Man, Poor Man’_!” He laughs, before adding slyly: “Is it a real life love triangle? Tell me, Tobio, is Tsukishima into Haiba Arisa too?”

Kei doesn’t hear Kageyama’s response, because he jams his finger on the power button to turn the radio off before he makes the conscious decision to, plunging his car into silence.

 _Kuroo and Haiba_ , he thinks, _sounds ridiculous._ For some reason, he keeps coming back to the casual way he hugged her with one arm at the press conference, and the way he calls her by her first name. The way he’s known her for a long time, and the way she smiles at him sometimes, like she’s used to his antics. He’d never really considered it before, but maybe it isn’t that ridiculous. 

When Kei takes his next breath in, it burns, and surprised, Kei takes another breath, noting the tightness in his chest and the way his hands shake on the steering wheel. _This is why Tadashi was upset,_ Kei tries to tell himself, as his stomach twists up in knots. _Because he hated hearing about my life on the news._

But even as he thinks it, he knows it isn’t true. Kei has never truly suffered from a lack of self-awareness. He knows hearing about Yachi or Tadashi like this would be annoying, and that it’s only _painful_ because it’s Kuroo. 

Kuroo, who isn’t Kei’s boyfriend, or anything more than someone Kei started sleeping with because he could. Kuroo, who was supposed to be a one night stand and turned into a co-writer and a friend and one of the few people Kei doesn’t need to play nice with or pretend around. 

Kuroo, who doesn’t owe Kei an explanation, whether the pictures are real or not, because it’s none of Kei’s business, even if a small part of him had been starting to think maybe he’d like it to be.

This is a good reminder of why the rest of him has always been so against getting more attached, because while Kei is willing to relinquish control to Kuroo for minutes or even hours at a time in bed, trusting him not to take advantage, he’s never, ever wanted to give anyone that kind of power over him more completely, more permanently.

He pulls into the parking lot at the agency, and turns the car of, resting his forehead against the steering wheel, taking deep breaths as he listens to the sound of his heartbeat pounding in his ears.

And the thing is, Kei knows, that Kuroo has been taking little pieces of Kei all along, with his poking and prodding and teasing and clear, honest requests, and though Kei hadn’t meant to, he’d parted with those pieces easily, holding them out despite knowing better, and accepting bits of Kuroo in return.

That, Kei must admit, is why he’s sitting here in the car like this, chest physically hurting. Because he’s been silly, in a way he knew better than to be.

His phone rings, and Kei fishes it out of his pocket, answering it without checking for the caller. “Hello?”

“Tsukishima,” Takeda’s high, thin voice says, over the line, “you’re late!”

“I’m in the parking lot,” Kei replies, pressing his hand to his sternum and pressing down on it, like applying pressure to a wound. “Five minutes.”

“Oh good,” Takeda replies. “I was worried. You’re never late.”

Kei’s been doing a lot of things he never does, lately. Well, he’s had enough of that. “Five minutes,” he repeats, and ends the call. 

He spares one last look at the radio, and unfastens his seatbelt. 

*

They film the big altercation scene for episode fifteen the next day. Kei shows up just in time to go into makeup, avoiding Kuroo’s eyes and focusing on reviewing his lines one last time. As he drags his thumb across the lines, he recalls rehearsing them with Kuroo, abandoning their practice halfway through thanks to some distraction or another. 

Haiba isn’t on set today. Kei’d overheard a whispered conversation between the costume managers, as he changed into his suit for the day, that her manager had called to say she wouldn’t be in today, since she was so distraught about the leaked photos. Kei can only be relieved about that; not because he doesn’t like Haiba, since he does, but because, after actually looking at the photos, he can’t help the flicker of resentment seeing her small hand on Kuroo’s neck calls up, and he’s worried it’ll be written all over his face.

When he’s ready, he makes his way onto set, where the director is talking to Kuroo with over-articulated hand gestures, blocking out the scene with him. He looks up and beckons Kei when he sees them, and Kei casually walks over, coming to a stop next to Kuroo.

Kuroo is looking at him, Kei can feel it, but he ignores it, giving the director the entirety of his obvious focus. Kuroo’s body is radiating heat, and he smells like spices. Kei swallows. It’s stupid, Kei reminds himself, to give someone that much power over him. It’s stupid, to offer up that much control to someone he’s known less than half of a year. Kei has never been the kind of person to give into things like this.

“Don’t forget that the purpose of this scene is to test the power of Shiro and Takeshi’s friendship,” says the director. “Tsukishima, you’re furious because you saw Kuroo out with the girl you’ve liked since high school, on a date, and he’s gone behind your back when you trusted him, more than you’ve ever been able to trust the other people in your life who have always wanted something from you.” Kei nods, tightly.

“Not a problem,” he says.

Then the director looks over to Kuroo. “And you, Kuroo, have been wrestling with the guilt of knowing you’ve been lying to Tsukishima, but also the sense of jealousy that followed you your whole life.” He puts his hand to his heart. “Tsukishima character’s been handed the opportunities you’ve had to claw your way into his whole life, and a part of you is happy that in this, you’re the one who was good enough already, even though you know Shiro has never tried to make you feel inferior.”

“So in the end,” Kuroo says, “it’s not about Haiba’s character at all, is it?”

“No,” Kei says. “It isn’t. It’s about two people being fundamentally different in where they come from and what they want, and not understanding each other.”

Kuroo sighs, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle in his white dress shirt. It makes his shoulders look broader. “It can’t be impossible for them to bridge that gap, can it?”

“Episode sixteen implies that it isn’t.” Kei carefully scratches his scalp with the tip of his finger to avoid messing up his hair. “It’s a drama, not real life.” He looks at the director again. “Do you have any blocking notes for me?”

Kuroo is quiet, pensive, as Kei waits for the camera to start rolling, but as soon as the director gives the command to start the scene, Kuroo’s face transforms, with the casual ease Kei has come to associate with Kuroo’s acting. He rattles off his lines like they’re his own words, and urgency winds its way up Kei’s spine as he lets himself feed off that energy, letting his own emotions get tangled up in the ones his stoic character is supposed to express.

“I expect things like this from other people,” Kei says, into the heavy silence between them. The staff, out of view of the camera, seem caught up in the atmosphere, several of them covering their mouths with their hands. “But not from you.”

“At least let me explain—“ Kuroo runs both hands through his hair. It’s messy and dark, sticking up at all angles the way it does when he wakes up in Kei’s bed some mornings, sheets crumpled obscenely low on his hips and eyelids heavy with sleep. 

“There’s nothing to explain!” Kei interrupts, his voice cracking, and Kuroo’s eyes almost imperceptibly widen as Kei takes a deep breath and repeats, more calmly, “there’s nothing to explain. You’ve already decided what I mean to you.”

Kuroo flinches back as though he’s been slapped, and Kei’s mouth twists with satisfaction, unsure if it’s him or the character.

“I won’t let her come between us!” Kuroo yells, getting up in his face, same as he did when they practiced it, and Kei reaches up with both hands the same way, too, to shove him, and Kuroo clutches at his forearms to keep him from pulling back afterwards. “You’re more important to me than anyone, Shiro!”

“If I were,” Kei replies, “you wouldn’t have betrayed me like this.” The words fall like stones to the bottom of a lake, heavy and final.

Kuroo’s eyes gleam, light from the setting sun filtering in through the narrow apartment windows. They’re so gold, molten and warm and fierce, and Kei thinks he’s never seen eyes like Kuroo’s in his life, and he probably won’t ever again. 

It’s stupid, Kei reminds himself, to care about that, too.

“Am I not important enough to you for you to even hear me out?” Kuroo is back in his face again, still gripping his forearms, and Kei’s eyes drop, unbidden, to the thin line of his lips, with curled down corners where Kuroo’s smirk usually rests.

Kei briefly closes his eyes, and straightens himself up to full height, about even with Kuroo, before he opens them again, meeting his gaze.

“You don’t mean _anything_ to me,” Kei says, pushing back again on Kuroo’s shoulders. “You’re absolutely nothing at all, and I’m finished caring about what you do.” He yanks his arms free, spinning on his heel so he can storm out of the apartment, letting the dorm slam behind him. 

He comes back in when the director yells cut, and the staff is clapping. “I think we got the scene,” he says, “but we need to get another take of the end with better lighting. You two can take a break.”

“That’s fine,” Kei says, purposefully avoiding Kuroo’s gaze. “I’m going to step outside for a minute, excuse me.” 

He walks down to the end of the hallway to where a balcony leads to the outside. It’s the tail end of a warm, sunny day, and the sky is bleeding from blue to orange as the sun starts to set. 

There are no chairs out here, so Kei sits down on the sun-warmed concrete, slipping his legs through the wide-set black metal bars of the balcony railing like a child, letting them dangle, and tries to let the tension fall out of his back and shoulders.

He hears the footsteps and knows who they belong to without turning around.

“So,” Kuroo says, sitting down next to him, back to the railing, hands on his knees and arm brushing Kei’s. “That was some acting.”

“Do you need something?” Kei stares at his legs, slotted carefully between the balcony railing bars, swinging over the empty air. 

“I wanted to talk to you, but you’ve been avoiding me all day.” Kuroo leans back, his hair mussing as the rails push it this way and that, and his face is looking up at the sky when Kei steals a quick look at him. “About Arisa.”

“Oh,” Kei says, wrapping his hands around the bars. His knuckles go white, but he forces himself to loosen his hold before Kuroo can notice. “Am I supposed to care?”

Kuroo startles, turning his head to look at Kei, and Kei fixes his gaze on the staff members scrambling around below them, bringing lights up from a van to fix the selective darkness of the apartment they’re filming in today. “You’re angry?”

“No,” Kei replies. “Why should I be angry?” He swallows. “And why should you care if I were?”

“Because we’re…” Kuroo trails off. “I just thought I should tell you all of it.”

“Because we’re what?” Kei finally turns to look at Kuroo, who looks confused, for once. He has dark circles under his eyes and his lips are chapped, and despite the makeup caked onto his face Kei can see the exhaustion around the lines of his mouth. Kei’s stomach twists up, with want and anger, and he narrows his eyes. “We were attracted to each other, so we fucked. The end.”

“We’re also friends,” Kuroo says. He reaches out, wrapping long fingers around Kei’s thin wrist, and Kei lets go of the metal railing bar to shake off the touch.

“Don’t,” he says, sharply, and Kuroo lets go immediately, his eye-whites visible. Kei exhales. “You said you wanted to have sex with me before filming started, to get it out of your system. Well,” Kei gestures to the staff running to-and-fro. “Today’s a wrap on episode fifteen. The drama’s almost finished filming.” His eyes are tingling. They must be dry, even though Kei’s wearing his glasses. He closes his eyes. “It’s out of _my_ system.”

“Tsukki,” Kuroo says, and Kei sucks his teeth.

“It’s Tsukishima,” Kei says, firmly, and Kuroo’s eyes flash, that brilliant, beautiful gold. 

“Right,” Kuroo says, his adam’s apple bobbing. “Of course.”

The director peeks out, then, onto the balcony. “It’s time to do the last part, where Tsukishima walks out, from another angle.”

“Tsukishima walking out,” Kuroo murmurs, quietly, as he stands. He shoves his hands in his pockets. “How fitting.”

The director looks between them inquisitively, then shrugs, retreating back inside.

“I guess it’s cruel, to keep fireflies in jars just because you like their light.” Kuroo takes a shaky breath.

“I’m not like a firefly,” Kei says. “Or like a dinosaur. Or made of ice. I’m just me.”

“Yeah,” Kuroo says. “I know all of that. I…” He laughs, low, lacking any real mirth. “Each one of those was just a new side of you I discovered.” A pause. “I feel like there are so many more, but I guess it really _doesn’t_ matter.”

Then he’s gone, and Kei is alone on the balcony, wondering why, if he’s doing what’s best for himself, he feels so empty.

Kei rests his head against the rails, letting the cool of them sink into his skin, and then slips his legs free of the railings so he can go back inside.

*

“You heard, right?” Nishinoya pops up in the third floor lounge at the agency like some terribly excited Meer cat, startling Kei into dropping his phone into his lap. He hasn’t received any text messages today. Which is good, because Kei hates text messaging. He can’t miss something he hates.

“Heard what?” Kei pulls his headphones down to hang around his neck and looks at Nishinoya unimpressed. “Just sit next to me like a normal person.”

“Only if you call me _senpai_ ,” Nishinoya says, and Kei snorts. “Okay, maybe that’s reaching. Why couldn’t you be a good boy, like Hinata?”

“Hinata is a moron,” Kei replies. “Have I heard _what_?” 

“You’re going on that late night show tonight, right?” Nishinoya plops down onto the sofa, kicking his feet in the air, displaying brand new sneakers. “Sooooo is Nametsu Mai.”

Kei stills. “Where did you hear this?”

Nishinoya hums. “From Ryou, who heard it from Asahi, who heard it from Daichi, who heard it from Take-chan.” He twists his ankles, so that the big shiny check mark on the emblem shimmers under the unfortunate bright lights of the lounge. “Or something like that.”

“Hmm.” Kei frowns. “Shouldn’t I have been told about this?”

The lounge door opens, and a harried looking Takeda rushes in. “Has anyone seen Tsukishima?!”

Nishinoya laughs. “Take-chan, just the man we wanted to see!”

Takeda smiles when he sees Tsukishima sitting next to Nishinoya on the sofa. “Ah, Tsukishima, I need to talk to you!”

“About Nametsu?” Kei rubs his hands on his jeans. “I’ve already heard.”

Takeda fluffs his already fluffy hair and sighs. “Ukai worked it out with Nametsu’s agency,” he says. “Nametsu is still being asked about you too often, and it would be better for your image too if you publicly buried the hatchet.”

“So this has to play out in front of everyone, too, huh?” Kei shrugs. “It’s fine.”

“Is it?” Takeda looks at Kei carefully. “Are you sure?”

“It’s not me that cries on streets.” He grips his knees. “If this is what I have to do, fine.”

Takeda nods, disappearing as quickly as he’d come, and then it’s just Nishinoya and Kei again.

“As number one on your speed-dial,” Nishinoya says, “I reserve the right to tell you it’s all right if you want to cry on my shoulder about breaking up with a girl as hot as Nametsu Mai.”

“I don’t want to cry on your shoulder,” is Kei’s bland reply.

“You’ve looked like you need a good cry all week,” Nishinoya says, reaching up to pat gingerly at Kei’s shoulder. “It’s super manly to cry when your emotions overwhelm you.”

Kei stares at Nishinoya. “All week?”

“Yeah,” Nishinoya replies. “Does it have something to do with that Haiba Arisa chick and that dude from Nekoma?”

“Why should I care who Haiba Arisa dates?” Kei rubs at his temples. 

“No, not her,” says Nishinoya. “I thought you had some kinda thing going on with tall, dark, and handsome.” Nishinoya wiggles his pinky. “Sorry if I wasn’t supposed to think that!” He laughs, loudly enough that it echoes. “Didn’t think it was a secret you could be into dudes with how you wanted to jump Kageyama so bad when you were teenagers.”

Kei’s insides freeze, shatter, and then freeze together again all wrong, as he stares at Nishinoya with his mouth half-open and his eyes wide.

“That’s—“

Nishinoya grins. “That’s…?” 

Kei gathers all his thoughts together and then pushes them back, into a box at the back of his mind for later perusal. “I did _not_ have a crush on Kageyama,” he snaps, and Nishinoya laughs again, louder.

“Okay,” he says, wheezing. “I totally believe you!” Kei scowls, and Nishinoya wipes his eyes. “Anyway, if it’s not handsome or Nametsu, why the long face?”

Kei doesn’t reply, and Nishinoya flashes the check on his sneakers one more time before jumping up from his seat, allotment of peaceful sitting time all used up, apparently.

“Grumpy Tsukishima,” Nishinoya says, “have some free advice from me!” He points at him. “Embrace the power of your youth more! Go wild! Fall in love! Call me and let me take you out to dinner! Use the speed-dial!”

“That’s all useless advice,” Kei says, letting himself slump on the sofa seat. “Just like feelings. Completely useless.”

“No,” says Nishinoya, “it’s totally not. What’s useless is you sitting there looking like you need to cry on my shoulder and not doing it!” Nishinoya lets his finger drop. “You don’t have to think of feelings as useless! Feelings are what made your drama popular, you know? You can see all your emotions on your face. It’s _great_.”

“For you, maybe,” Kei says, “but not for me.”

“The point is,” Nishinoya continues, ignoring him, “feelings don’t have to be, like, a weakness. They can make you better at stuff, too!” He rocks back and forth from the heels of his feet to the toes. “Stuff like acting.”

Kei rolls his eyes, even as his stomach twists up, tying in sailor knots at all of the implications of Nishinoya’s advice. “Are you going to go away now?”

“Yeah, yeah, you grouch!” He bends over and puts his face up into Kei’s. “But remember you can always call me.”

“As if,” Tsukishima replies, and then he’s left by himself in the lounge, thinking about Nametsu and Kuroo and the fact that people have been reading him much more than he’d noticed. 

*

Nametsu is already there when Kei arrives for recording. She is wearing a simple pink dress that shows off her legs, and her hair is swept elegantly back in a ponytail, and she smells like honeysuckle.

Kei sits down across from her at the long table in the waiting room, and she smiles at him tentatively. “Tsukishima, sorry about this.”

“It’s not a problem,” Kei says. “Even if I don’t know what I’m supposed to do or say.”

“I don’t either, really, but I’ll figure it out.” Her smile strengthens. “It really was short-sighted for me to just confess to you out of the blue like that, wasn’t it?”

Kei drums his hands on the table, watching her worry at her glossy pink lower lip with her front teeth. “Why did you do it?”

“Why did I do what?” Her head tilts inquisitively, and Kei thinks about how Kuroo does that too, only his eyebrows go up on his forehead and his hair is never neat like Nametsu’s, dark strands falling messily in every direction at the movement. 

“You knew there was a chance I’d refuse you. It wasn’t worth the risk of feeling like that, was it?”

She gapes at him for a moment, before her eyes soften. “Well, I liked you,” she says, then, clicking her own painted nails on the edge of the table. “To me, the risk of getting hurt was definitely worth the possibility that you might like me back.”

“But _why_?” Kei is surprised at the frustration in his own tone, and at how Nametsu looks like she’s suddenly understanding something about him that he’s still trying to figure out. “Wouldn’t it have been easier to just keep… fake dating?”

“Easier, yes.” Nametsu frowns. “Wouldn’t it have been easier for you to have done something else, instead of becoming an idol?”

“I wanted to be an idol, though,” Kei replies.

“Why?” Nametsu’s fluttery butterfly sleeves shimmer. 

“Because…” Kei has a lot of reasons he became an idol. There had been wanting to follow in Aki’s footsteps, of course, but there had also been the way Kei wanted to dance, make music, sing. Kei had wanted that enough that it didn’t matter much how little his parents wanted to send another child off to Tokyo on a contract with heavy conditions, to live in a dormitory and lose out on a normal high school life for the sake of a future that may or may not pan out. He’d wanted it, and he’d reached for it, because it made him _happy_ , and—“Oh.”

“Do you get it?” Nametsu curls her hands into delicate fists. “It’s the same thing. Emotions are what drive a lot of decisions we all make. Even the important, scary ones. Especially the important, scary ones.”

“People,” Kei replies, “are unpredictable. When you care about a person like that, wouldn’t it keep being scary?” He thinks about the way his heart had stopped beating, hearing about Kuroo and Haiba on the radio, before starting to beat again way too fast. About how looking at Kuroo, after that, had felt a little like drowning. “Like making the decision to let yourself like someone would just be scary every single day?”

“Tsukishima…” Nametsu’s gaze is too much for him to meet. “ _Yes_. But, don’t you think there are some people you can trust to make it less scary?” Kei studies the blunt edges of his own nails, knowing the way they look digging into Kuroo’s thighs.

“No,” Kei says, thinking of going to the junior idol showcase and seeing Aki in the audience, one of the cut trainees sitting on the sidelines after all his talk of making it as an idol. He thinks of the clear, high quality photos of Haiba’s fingers tangled in the soft, almost curly hair at the nape of Kuroo’s neck. “Not really.”

Nametsu coughs, and Kei looks up again to meet her eyes. Her face is clear, her expression gentle. “I really am sorry, by the way. For blindsiding you like that.”

“Did you trust me?” Kei wishes it hadn’t come out so harshly, but Nametsu knows him pretty well, and she just smiles. 

“A little,” she says.

Kei pushes up on his glasses. “Do you regret it?” 

“No.” She sighs. “I regret that it led to such a huge mess, but I don’t regret acting on my feelings. I would have always wondered, if you could have liked me. I think…” She knits her eyebrows together. “Bravery isn’t always rewarded. People don’t always get what they want. But the only way we definitely won’t get what we want is if we don’t try for it.” 

She’s looking at him so earnestly, and Kei remembers all the things about her he’d liked when he first met her—her straightforwardness, her logical thinking, her charm. “I could have liked you,” Kei says to her, after a long silence. “If I liked girls. But I don’t.”

Nametsu’s whole face goes slack with surprise for a moment, and then she laughs. “The forum rumors weren’t just rumors, then?” She shakes her head. “I probably should have considered that, at least.”

“Probably,” Kei agrees, and he feels a smile pulling at the corner of his own mouth. He then lifts his eyes to glance at the clock. “They’re going to come get us soon.”

Nametsu nods in agreement. “I hope they don’t ask about your friend Kuroo and Arisa,” she says. “Since I’m friends with her, and obviously it’s a hot topic right now.”

“She hasn’t been to set.” Kei keeps his eyes on the clock. “Haiba, I mean.”

“I’m not surprised. She and Kuroo broke up almost two years ago, so those pictures surfacing _now_ , when your drama is so popular… That’s got to be awkward, since it took them a while to fix their friendship.”

Two years, Kei repeats internally, turning the idea over in his head. He remembers, then, Kuroo mentioning his ex-girlfriend to Kei before, and maybe he’d never said it was Haiba, but Kei’s not sure if that matters. _I just thought I should tell you all of it,_ Kuroo had said, and Kei had refused to listen because it had scared him, that Kuroo could have the same power over Kei’s heart that Kei had sometimes granted him over his body.

And being scared… isn’t that something Nametsu had just described as being worth it, under the right conditions? It makes Kei think of Nishinoya’s advice, of Sugawara’s gentle teasing. Of Tadashi asking him if he was being honest with himself, and of Yachi telling him how happy he’s been, since he started spending time with Kuroo. All of these people that Kei has let in, at least a little, through the walls around his heart have been telling Kei all along, really, and Kei had maybe been too stubborn to pay attention.

“Tsukishima?”

He blinks, and Nametsu is waving her hand in front of his face. “Sorry,” he says. “I was thinking.”

“It’s time,” she says, and Kei swallows, stands up, and follows her out toward the talk show set.

*

It rains for a solid week of April, pushing back the filming of the last episode of _Rich Man, Poor Man_ almost eight days, taking everyone’s schedule into account. Kei finds himself with a surprising amount of free time on his hands, and gravitates towards his studio, setting everything up without being sure about what he wants to even make.

When he opens his production software, though, it’s his and Kuroo’s finished song, the dance track they’d agreed to make all the way back in December, sitting on the red couches in the Nekomata recording room, knees brushing as they poured over rewrites for their soundtrack song. 

Kei can’t bring himself to close it, because his and Kuroo’s voices really do sound nice together, and instead of writing anything new, he listens to it again and again on his favorite headphones.

On the third day of rain, Tadashi drops by with takeaway. He takes one look at Kei and frowns. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Kei replies, taking the takeout from him and walking to the kitchen. “I’m tired of rain.”

“I heard from Yachi that your filming’s been pushed back.”

“Yeah.” 

Tadashi walks over to Kei’s fridge. “I heard about Kuroo and Haiba,” he says.

Kei leans back against the wall and watches Tadashi pour two glasses of water from the pitcher. “She’s his ex-girlfriend.”

“Ah,” Tadashi says, tension Kei hadn’t realized was there relaxing from his friend’s shoulders. “So everything is okay between you two?”

“I already told you that wasn’t anything,” Kei replies, pushing himself off the wall to go open the takeaway.

“I know you did,” Tadashi says. “And I’m not trying to dictate your own feelings to you or anything. It’s only, you don’t get easily attached to people, but you got attached to him.”

“I told him I didn’t want anything to do with him like that anymore.” The plastic, wet from the rain outside, sticks to his fingers as he undoes the knot tying the bag closed. 

Tadashi sets the two glasses on the table. “Is that true?”

Kei’s fingers finally pull the two ears of the bag free from each other. “No,” he says, then, and his voice is unsteady. “Probably not.”

Tadashi carefully pushes Kei’s hands aside, and takes out the two containers of fried pork cutlets. “So,” he says, softly, “what are you going to do?”

“I don’t know,” Kei says, and Tadashi rests his fingers briefly on Kei’s forearm before walking around to the other side of the kitchen table. “It’s not easy for me to… I can express my opinion so easily, but anything else is…”

“Yeah,” Tadashi agrees. “You’ve always been like that.” He sits down, and looks up at Kei, who is still standing. “I got the impression, though, that Kuroo could understand you anyway.”

The thing is, Kei knows Kuroo would. He’s just still not sure if he can offer himself up like that to anyone, even if it is Kuroo, who gets Kei in ways he never really expected anyone but Tadashi to be able to do.

“Can we eat now?” Kei asks, and Tadashi laughs, nodding, letting the conversation drop.

When Tadashi leaves, takeaway containers thrown out and only footprints from his muddy shoes in the foyer left as evidence he was ever here, Kei wanders back toward his bedroom, listless.

He stops in his doorway, looking at the shelves of dinosaurs above his bed, and the clean pale sheets, and how big his bed looks for just one person when he’d gotten used to it fitting two. The cat, with its garish paint job, nestled between the stegosaur and the brontosaurus, is still facing the wall, and Kei walks over to it slowly, crawling on his knees across the bed until he can pick it up and turn it around in his hands. He stares down at it, with its yellow eyes and Kuroo-like expression, and sighs. “Is it worth it?” 

The cat doesn’t reply, because it’s a fucking _figurine_ , but it does feel warm in his hands. Warm like Kuroo, who lights up this whole room with his smug grins and fills Kei’s apartment with life when Kei hadn’t realized it was missing.

He sets the cat back on the shelf, facing out toward the world again, and slowly returns to his studio. He sits in one of the two chairs, and plays their duet again. It’s really good, he thinks. It would be a waste, to let it sit.

He opens up his browser, and creates a streaming account.

*

Two days before filming is supposed to start again, Kei gets a text message. 

_u know, i should sue you_

He stares at it, this message from Kuroo, for five minutes, before he gets a second one.

_did we even decide to publish it? i knew you liked it_

It’s the first he’s heard from Kuroo since he’d left set after filming episode fifteen. He doesn’t know how to respond to these texts, that Kuroo has written like nothing has changed. Kei’s not good at navigating things like this. 

_you said we were friends,_ comes a third message, a few hours later. _am I at least allowed to want to keep that?_

Kei had said that, and he’d meant it, no matter how begrudgingly he’d spoken it aloud. He’d meant it, because Kuroo had pushed and prodded, but never tried to _change_ Kei, and that’s…

Kei takes a deep breath. “Okay,” he says aloud. “ _Fine_.” 

Still in his pajamas, he walks to his front door, slips on his shoes, and grabs his umbrella.

*

Kuroo answers the door shirtless, wearing his rattiest pair of sweatpants, his hair uncombed and the faint shadows of a beard clinging to his cheeks and jawline. He looks tired, and drawn, but his muscles are thick from a recent workout, and sweat leaves the sharp angles of his chest, shoulders and collarbones shining in the hall light. 

“Tsukishima?” Kuroo licks his lips. “What are you doing here?”

“I lied,” Kei says, making himself look Kuroo in the eyes. “I lied about you being out of my system.”

Kuroo’s jaw flexes, and he opens the door wider, gesturing for Kei to come inside. Kei leaves his soggy shoes in the foyer and steps up into the hall. He looks around, much like he did the first time he came over, for a drink, taking in the mess of the living room, game controllers strewn about and piles of magazines hiding the surface of the coffee table. Another way they are different. 

“Why?” Kuroo doesn’t touch him, but Kei can tell he wants to. Kei wonders if it’s because Kei had rebuffed the last touch, or if it’s because Kuroo is upset with him. Maybe it’s both, Kei thinks, and he’s fucked it up.

“I like being alone.” Kei pushes up on his glasses. “I like watching people from the outside. I don’t like getting over-invested, and I don’t like getting involved.” He heaves a sigh. “But you… I don’t know what you _did_ to me. I let you get too close, and now I think about you and your terrible jokes and terrible taste all the time. You talk too much. You make me lose control. I don’t like any of these things but somehow—“ He falters. “Somehow…”

Kuroo is looking at him like he’s the only thing in the world, and Kei’s breath catches in his throat. Then Kuroo grins, smug and wide and catlike, his eyes gleaming that wonderful, unforgettable gold. “Tsukki, I think you’re in love with me,” he says, and the bottom drops out of Kei’s stomach, like he’s in freefall or something. 

Kuroo’s hands come up to settle on his waist, though, and pull him close, and Nametsu might have been right, about fears and risks and taking chances, even if Kei will never tell her so. “How many times do I have to tell you not to call me that?”

“My bad,” Kuroo says, and he brings one hand up to tuck right under Kei’s chin. “It’s so tempting, four-eyes.” Then Kuroo pushes up with one finger and kisses him, tongue sliding into Kei’s mouth like he wants to claim him, and Kei lets him, has always let him, and a part of Kei, a tiny part not caught up in the feel of Kuroo’s hair between his fingers or the scratch of his stubble on Kei’s smooth cheeks, wonders if he’s secretly known all along that he wanted Kuroo to claim him.

When Kuroo pulls back, lips sticky and pink and both of them panting, Kei looks Kuroo directly in the eyes again. “I’m going to mess up,” he says. “I don’t understand people, and I’m not good at saying or doing what will make other people happy.”

“I know,” Kuroo says. “I like you just fine the way you are.”

Kei stares at him, trying to see if Kuroo means it, and he realizes that there isn’t a way he can truly know. He just has to trust, and hope for the best. He’s never been good at that, either, but he thinks he can try. 

He grabs Kuroo’s wrist, turning Kuroo’s left hand palm up. Then, with his other hand, he carefully takes off his glasses, setting them into Kuroo’s open palm. Kuroo’s exhale is ragged. “Tsukishima?”

“I guess,” Kei says, after a long hesitation, “that Tsukki is better than four-eyes.”

Kuroo laughs, and the richness of it curls around Kei like a warm black cat, purring against his spine. Kuroo’s free hand slides up his side and up around his chest, stopping right at his heart. “Tsukki, can I kiss you again?”

“I suppose—“ Kei starts, but then his words are cut off by Kuroo’s lips sealing over his own.

*

Tadashi is on the roof waiting the day filming for the drama wraps. He looks up at Kei, and smiles. “You fixed it,” he says, and Kei finds himself blushing.

“I may have been wrong,” Kei says. “About the feelings thing.”

“Really?” Tadashi is laughing at him. Great. Thirteen year old Kei would never have been able to imagine this.

“Just…” Kei looks out over the skyline. “Talk about something. Anything.”

“Sure,” Tadashi says, and he starts rambling about his new rookies as Kei carefully cradles the small fire in his chest, protecting it from the wind on the roof.

*

Oikawa Tooru looks at him slyly. “So,” he says, as Kei shifts in his seat. “Times sure have changed for you since the last time you were on my show. A hit drama, a repaired friendship with our national sweetheart…”

Kei thinks Oikawa doesn’t know the half of it. “Yes,” he says. “I was lucky to be cast in such a great drama.”

“Word on the street is that the drama was lucky to have cast _you_ ,” says Oikawa. “You and Nekoma’s Kuroo are both up for the same acting award at this year’s Nikkan Grand Prix. What’s it like, competing against a friend?”

“I want to beat him, of course.” Oikawa blinks, shocked, and then he laughs, like he’s genuinely pleased. The audience laughs along with him. The atmosphere is so different.

“Everyone is talking about the music you released on your new streaming account. That was a co-effort by you and Kuroo Tetsurou, right?”

“We’re going to make more,” Kei says, settling back into his seat. Oikawa isn’t scary today, just curious. Kei can handle it, even if he’d rather not. “Please anticipate it.”

“Oh hoh?” Oikawa grins. “Careful there, Ice Prince. You’re starting to sound like a real idol.”

“Heaven forbid,” Kei says dryly, and he manages another surprise laugh out of Oikawa as the producer signals for commercial break.

*

Kuroo stretches languidly across Kei’s bed, lube smeared across his thighs and shimmering along the edges of fresh scratches and welts that raise pink on the skin. He looks comfortable, and Kei crawls along the edge of the bed until he can fit himself into the pocket of space Kuroo has left for him. Kuroo tangles their legs together as soon as Kei lies down completely, curling to kiss him, half-missing his mouth and leaving a wet lick on the corner of Kei’s lips.

“Any plans for tonight?” Kuroo asks. His voice is husky, because he always talks too much and it’s no surprise that sometimes his voice gives out.

“No,” Kei says. “Why?”

“I’m having a couple of people over at my place.” Kuroo hooks his knee around Kei’s thigh to pull him in closer. “Just Akaashi and Bokuto and maybe Kenma if I can pry him away from Maple Story.” He leans his head in until their foreheads touch. “I was wondering if you would come? Bokuto’s been nagging me. You could bring Yamaguchi if you wanted.”

Kei looks up at Kuroo through his lashes. “Whatever,” he says, and he’s rewarded with Kuroo’s crooked, happy grin. He’s getting used to the fact that there’s a lot he’s willing to do to be the cause of it. “Your friends are so noisy.”

“I’m noisy,” Kuroo replies.

“Not all of the time,” Kei says. “You know how to be quiet, too.”

“And you know when to be loud.” Kuroo waggles his eyebrows, and Kei considers shoving him off the bed. Instead, he curls his fingers into Kuroo’s hair. Kuroo purrs, nuzzling into the touch.

Kei’s phone rings loudly, and he reaches for it with his free hand, looking at the screen to see who’s calling. He blinks in shock. 

“Anyone important?” Kuroo asks, throwing an arm across Kei’s belly.

"It’s my brother," Kei says, his fingers halting in their comb-through of Kuroo’s messy perpetual bedhead.

"Are you going to answer?" Kei knows Kuroo doesn’t intend it, but it feels like he’s taunting him, daring him to face this problem head on, too.

"Yeah," Kei says, looking down at the wicked curve of Kuroo’s lips and the slope of his nose and the confident way he’s looking up at Kei with those glowing gold eyes of his. Kuroo’s the one, Kei thinks, with all the qualities of a firefly. "Yeah," he repeats, and then presses his thumb to the green button, and he accepts the call.

**Author's Note:**

> ty to cnc/a who immediately latched on to this au during brainstorming  
> to k who let me talk out a sci-fi plot i didn't use for 4 hours  
> to a who story-beta'd  
> and t who is my general life beta  
> 


End file.
